


The Satinalia Switch

by heffalumps, Katieee



Series: Shepard meets Thedas [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Christmas AU, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Identity Swap, Idiots in Love, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heffalumps/pseuds/heffalumps, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katieee/pseuds/Katieee
Summary: All Olivia Trevelyan wanted was a nice, quiet Satinalia, but chaos descends the moment the Inquisition sets foot in Denerim Palace for their peace talks. Now she has to navigate a case of mistaken identities, the looming threat of assassination by the Crows, and, worst of all, a King whose smile makes her weak. With the future of the Inquisition at stake, can she figure out a way to save them, or will Shepard have to go ahead with the worst plan of all time?A lighthearted Satinalia AU set just prior to Trespasser featuring an increasingly frantic Trevelyan, a marginally lovestruck King, and two absolutely hopeless Commanders.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Alistair/Original Female Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Female Shepard (Mass Effect), Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Past Cullen Rutherford/Female Inquisitor
Series: Shepard meets Thedas [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/972858
Comments: 138
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After watching an egregious amount of Netflix Christmas movies, we have been inspired/brainwashed into writing our own -- so here it is! We hope you enjoy it and the unnecessary amount of Satinalia trees! <3 
> 
> Art by the ever-incredible vjatoch (vjatoch.tumblr.com). <3
> 
> (Other fics in the series for [The Two Commanders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10052990/chapters/22399619) are in no way required reading for this, Shepard and Cullen are morons that's all you need to know)

Olivia Trevelyan had been to Denerim only once before. She and her family had spent one autumn there, as her parents had tried to orchestrate her eldest sister’s marriage to one of the Fereldan nobility; Olivia had been nine and had played with her doll of King Maric on a balcony which overlooked the palace. She’d imagined, back then, how the grand old building must have been equally beautiful inside, and she’d wished for nothing more than to explore it and learn its secrets. The following year her magic had manifested, and she’d resigned herself to never seeing a palace again.

Yet somehow, fifteen years later, here she was: not just an invited guest but an honoured guest. Even knowing the invitation was politically motivated, she remained as excited about it as she would have been as a child. She was delighted to find she’d been right about the palace’s inner beauty, but at this time of year it felt like she’d stepped into a dream. Lavishly decorated trees lined the halls and glittering stars hung from the ceiling, and holly and ivy entwined every free column and railing, radiant and breathtaking and more opulent than Olivia had ever imagined.

“I thought Ferelden was meant to be the less gaudy country on this continent.”

Shepard was apparently less impressed with the palace than Olivia, idly twiddling a bauble on the nearest tree. “I daresay it is for the Orlesian delegates,” Cullen grumbled, frowning at a particularly ornate garland. 

“Oh, sure, blame the Orlesians. At least they own their tackiness.”

With a particularly exuberant flick the bauble Shepard had been toying with fell from the tree and shattered on the floor. Shepard grimaced before offering Josephine an apologetic smile. 

“Remind me of why you wished to join us for this task, Shepard?” Josephine asked.

“Because I’m the only one willing to punch the King on the Inquisitor’s behalf.”

Josephine shot Olivia a look of despair, and though Olivia understood the reluctance to bring Shepard it was something on which she refused to compromise — for the truth was that Shepard hadn’t wished to join them. She would have been just as content remaining at Skyhold to oversee Cullen’s duties in his absence, or off on her own mission with the Chargers. Shepard was designed for fights and open skies, not diplomacy and tall ceilings, and though she could manage the latter that didn’t mean she wanted to.

Because the truth, really, was that Olivia needed Shepard. She needed someone to ground her, to laugh with her, to see her as someone other than the Inquisitor; she needed a friend, and for her that could only ever mean Shepard.

“I know your reservations, Shepard,” Leliana said, in a softer tone than Olivia had expected. “But I also know Alistair well enough to know his invitation to be sincere. I believe he truly does want to better the relations between Ferelden and the Inquisition.”

Shepard let out a disgruntled huff but said nothing else, instead turning from the tree to head further into the castle – an immediate breach of etiquette, for they hadn’t even been greeted yet. Cullen fell into step beside her, tilting his head to say something which made Shepard laugh and elbow him in the ribs, and an odd twinge of regret Olivia had thought she’d moved past briefly clutched at her chest.

“Andraste have mercy,” Josephine muttered to herself. “This is going to be a long week.”

\---

For all Leliana’s talk of mending relationships, the King wasn’t even at the castle to meet them; he’d apparently been delayed on another diplomatic trip, which Shepard considered the height of rudeness. Instead they were greeted by a harried steward, who barely looked at them as he swiftly escorted them to their quarters.

“And these would be your chambers, Commander,” he said when only Shepard and Cullen remained.

“Thank you,” Cullen nodded at him. “Ah— which Commander?”

The man’s brow furrowed as he looked between the pair of them — as though only just realising he had been escorting two people rather than one — before turning his attention to scour the list affixed to his noteboard. “We only have one Commander listed on the Inquisition’s retinue, ser.”

“Then there must have been a mistake. The Inquisition has two Commanders.”

Even now, with their unlikely friendship and laughter burying their old animosity, it still made Shepard smile to hear Cullen place her as his equal; that he considered them joint in role and placed his trust in her to carry out the duty so sacred to him, meant more than she ever would have thought. It was far from her old life, far from her old importance — the absence of her name on their guest list was proof enough of that — but she found, to her surprise, that she didn’t altogether mind the change of gear.

“I am so sorry, sers, but I do not know what to say. All our guest quarters have already been designated to members of the Orlesian nobility — perhaps you could try in town—"

“I’m not staying in the pub while this lot lives it up at the palace,” Shepard cut him off. “Come on; we’ll share.”

She swept past the man and into the quarters, which were more than big enough for both of them; in addition to a large four-poster bed was a chaise longue next to an intricately carved fireplace and a bay window overlooking a leafy courtyard. The centrepiece of the room, however, was a large Christmas tree — _Satinalia_ tree, she reminded herself — adorned just as extravagantly as the dozen they’d passed on their way through the castle, draped in red and gold with glass ornaments glistening under the glare of the winter sun. 

If she wasn’t sharing the space with Cullen, she might have even called the setup romantic.

“I think we can make a game out of this,” she mused as she inspected the decorations over the fireplace. “Drink every time you see a tree. Drink double if it’s abhorrently tacky.”

“I think I shall be unconscious before dinner.” 

She turned to grin at him, but found him looking distinctly unamused, his face set in a hard frown as he glared out the window. “What’s the matter, Scrooge? Not filled with the spirit of Satinalia yet?”

“No,” he grumbled, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard. “I shall look in town for somewhere else.”

Shepard rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. There’s plenty of room in here for both of us.”

His frown faltered, his expression shifting to one which seemed far more awkward as he finally met her eyes. “I— if you’re sure,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you should have the bed.”

“I think we know each other well enough by now to sleep in the same bed. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t spent the night together before.”

She winked at him, and it had exactly the effect she’d hoped for; his brow knitted into a scowl as he blushed all the way up to his ears, equal amounts annoyed and flustered by her belligerent teasing. It delighted her now just as it did those years ago, when all it took was heavy-handed flirtation to make her Templar captor stutter and avoid eye contact. They’d both grown since then, him more than her, but on this he remained unchanged — and she doubted she’d ever grow tired of it.

Cullen may have been rigid and dour and impossibly stubborn, but one other truth was also unavoidable: that he was ever so slightly adorable when he blushed.

“You are intolerable, Shepard.”

“I know. I really don’t know why you recruited me in the first place.”

He shook his head even as he smiled, with a softness far too infrequent on him, and it occurred to her that that expression might be even better than his blushes. She didn’t have too long to dwell on that thought, however, for the next moment the door to their quarters opened and the Inquisitor stepped inside.

“Shep—oh,” Olivia began, cutting herself off awkwardly as she looked towards Cullen. “Sorry. I had thought you’d be alone.”

“Alas, no,” Shepard said. “There’s been some form of Commander-related oversight. There was only one bed; you know how it goes. What’s up?” 

Olivia looked like she was going to say something to that, but seemed to think better of it, shaking her head before starting again. “It occurs to me that the King’s absence might be a good opportunity for us.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Shepard grinned. “Perhaps we should take a turn around the castle.”

“Absolutely not,” Cullen said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “We are here to build bridges with Ferelden, not spy on the King.”

“We’re not spying,” Shepard protested. “We’re just having a look around. If we happen to accidentally stumble into the King’s office and accidentally search through—”

“What you are suggesting amounts to treason.”

“Funny – it’s the same thing we did at the Winter Palace, and I don’t remember you complaining about treason back then. I actually remember you suggesting we let the Empress get assassinated.”

“That was different; you know full well if you get caught—”

“Commanders,” Olivia cut their bickering short. “I am still not entirely certain why King Alistair has invited us here, and I wish to be prepared for whatever he may confront us with. We shall be careful, but I am determined to do this.”

Shepard wasn’t sure whether it was the Inquisitor’s title, or whether some residual fondness for her still remained within Cullen, but he always seemed to relent far more easily when it came to Olivia. If it were Shepard he’d undoubtedly argue with her all the way to the King’s quarters, but here he simply sighed, and rubbed his temple with one hand. “Very well. But stay out of sight.”

“Of course. I shall get changed into something more inconspicuous,” Olivia said, indicating to her Inquisition regalia. “Meet me in my quarters in half an hour, Shepard?”

Cullen huffed as Olivia left them alone, fixing Shepard with a disapproving stare. “You are a bad influence.”

“I’m pretty sure she was the one who suggested this.”

“And I am equally sure she was never this eager to break the law before she met you.”

“Yeah, and she’s way more fun now. You might want to take a leaf out of her book and lighten up,” she told him. “You’ll never find a girl to put up with you if don’t stop being such a killjoy.” He merely narrowed his eyes at her, though that tell-tale blush was returning to his cheeks, and it took everything in her not to tease him further. “If you want, you can always help me create a distraction to help the Inquisitor get past the King’s guards.”

“Absolutely not,” he told her, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth which he was stubbornly trying to resist. “But I will spring you free from the dungeons if required.”

She grinned at him, and though that wasn’t quite the level of treason she’d hoped for he still had come a long way. “We won’t be long. Feel free to make the bed warm for me.”

“Be careful,” he said, ignoring her return to teasing. She merely winked at him again, quickly checking the daggers she’d concealed from Josephine before heading out the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Cullen really had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t like it was the first time she’d conspired against royalty.

\---

“So. Where are we headed?”

“Second floor, east wing,” Olivia said, the palace’s blueprints forefront in her mind as she navigated its corridors. “The King’s study is connected to his bedchambers; if there is anything worthwhile to be found, we shall find it there.”

“Sounds like you’ve cased this place already.”

“I may have asked Leliana to construct a map of it before our arrival.” Shepard said nothing, merely arching an eyebrow at her, and with a sigh Olivia continued. “It simply seems far too convenient that the King would invite us here now, only a month ahead of our meeting at the Winter Palace. I think he has something on the agenda other than an extension of goodwill at Satinalia.”

“Olivia Trevelyan, you’ve grown old and cynical. I’m so proud of you.”

Olivia knew she was only being glib, but still it made her smile. Many of her companions had drifted from Skyhold since Corypheus’ defeat, yet Shepard had remained; an unstoppable force on the battlefield and an immovable object beside her, she was a relentless presence who had slowly become her closest friend. 

“You can share my quarters, by the way,” Olivia told her as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “There’s no need for you to share with Cullen.”

“And give up priceless opportunities to annoy him? Not a chance.”

Olivia shook her head. “Sometimes I think you’ve only remained with us to antagonise him.”

“Of course I have,” Shepard told her. “I refuse to go anywhere until he resigns, and I can ascend as the one true Commander.”

She joked as she always did, and Olivia wondered whether she even saw that it went deeper than that, but she didn’t have the courage to press it. Instead she returned her attention to the task at hand, only speaking again when they approached their target, and she saw two guards at attention outside the King’s quarters.

“We need to get past them,” Olivia whispered, one hand on Shepard’s arm to stop her from turning the corner.

“Say no more.” She shrugged free of Olivia’s grip, approaching the men with a broad smile and that irrepressible charm of hers. “Excuse me, gentlemen!” she said as she disappeared out of view. “I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of a sparring ring and a willing victim. I’m in the mood to beat the gold out of someone.”

There was a noise of derision, followed by the familiar provocative taunts of Shepard starting a fight, and she was either going to talk her way past them or kill them. Thankfully, a few moments later Olivia heard footsteps heading away from her, and she peeked around the corner to see Shepard and the guards disappearing from view. 

She rushed towards the study as soon as their footsteps had faded into the distance, slipping inside with a singular purpose: to find any information she could to help prepare them, and then get out as soon as possible. The large oak desk was surely her best bet; she quickly approached it, rifling through the plethora of papers for some mention of the Inquisition. The name Trevelyan jumped out at her from one of the sheets, and she smoothed the document out on the desk as she began to read.

She’d just scanned the first paragraph when the door creaked open once more, and she froze at the sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat.

 _Well_ , she thought, head snapping up to face the intruder — who, judging by his crown and arched eyebrow was clearly not an intruder, and was far more entitled than her to be here. 

_Damn._


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello.”

That simple greeting from the King of Ferelden was enough to shock Olivia’s stunned brain into gear, her mind frantically whirring as she fought for some way to explain her presence in his office now she’d missed the opportunity to hide behind the Satinalia tree. Her only saving grace was that he didn’t know who she was — and she’d have to keep it that way, if she had any hope of the Inquisition coming out of this unscathed.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, with a curtsy and a deferential tilt of her head she’d learnt long ago in the Circle. “I was just… tidying.” To prove her point she gathered up the documents scattered across his desk, quickly shuffling them together into one neat pile before wiping stray flecks of dust from the wood with her hand. 

“That’s a shame. I have a very intricate system for sorting through my paperwork. It generally involves open flames.” She chanced a look up at him, and found he didn’t seem suspicious but merely amused, letting the door shut behind him as he stepped towards his desk. “You must be one of our new staff. Teagan said he was bringing in new people ahead of the festivities.”

“I am, Your Majesty,” she agreed, latching onto the excuse he’d offered her.

“But see, you have me at a disadvantage. You already know my name is Majesty, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.” He grinned, far too pleased by his own joke for someone meant to be a leader of state.

“Shepard, Your Majesty,” she answered, careful to keep the judgment out of her tone. It was the first name she could think of, and she cursed Shepard’s very existence as she said it; she never would have been convinced into such reckless behaviour before they’d met. Shepard had a habit of creating trouble wherever she went, and it was as compelling as it was frustrating.

“And your given name, serah Shepard?”

Olivia blanked once more, for she didn’t know Shepard’s first name. She’d travelled with her for years now, had come to view her as family, and still Shepard refused to reveal it.

“It’s Vee,” she said. No one had called her that in years, but it would have to do. “Vee Shepard, Your Majesty.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Vee.”

He smiled at her — a broad, winning smile he probably used to charm his court, one which brought out a dimple on his cheek and made him seem youthful and roguish. To her great surprise, Olivia found herself not entirely immune to it. She smiled back despite the panic pushing at her chest, and the King took a step closer towards her.

“Would you mind returning later?”

Her eyes widened, her imagination running wild for a moment before reigning her thoughts back in. “I— _later_?” she repeated, her voice a fraction higher than it needed to be.

“To clean,” he quickly clarified, pink colouring his cheeks. “I have some work to do before I have to face the Inquisition. I hate to be rude and throw you out, but I’ve been informed I’m in charge of a country.”

“Oh, I— of course, Your Majesty,” she said, curtsying again, beyond grateful at having an excuse to leave. “I shall leave you to your work.”

She scurried towards the door but hesitated before leaving, the curiosity that had brought her to his chambers in the first place rearing its head once more. “I would not have disturbed you, Your Majesty, had I known you were here,” she began as diplomatically as possible. “I was under the impression you would not be returning to Denerim until later this evening.”

“Ah, well — that may have been a small matter of deception,” he admitted, smiling ruefully as he sat down at his desk. “There were some matters I needed to attend to before receiving such esteemed visitors.”

Olivia couldn’t help the slight edge in her tone as she replied, “I hope you can come to some agreement with the Inquisition. Her Worship has done much to help the people of Ferelden.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she hoped she hadn’t said too much. “You have family in the Hinterlands, I take it.”

“Some,” she offered vaguely. “Good day, Your Majesty.”

She exited his study before he could say anything further — and, more importantly, before she could reveal herself as a fraud — rushing back towards her quarters as she hastily tried to cobble together some plan. She had no idea how they were now supposed to bargain with the crown when the King himself thought she were someone completely different, but she did know one thing:

Leliana was going to kill her.

\---

It was fairly disastrous news that Olivia had been discovered by King Alistair — but, Cullen supposed, the silver lining was that he got to say _I told you so_ to Shepard.

“I told you,” he said, rounding on Shepard as their small retinue gathered in the Inquisitor’s quarters. “I _told_ you, Shepard. I said this was—”

“How is this my fault?!” she shot back, folding her arms across her chest. “Liv’s the one who wanted to do it. She’s the one who got caught red-handed by the King. Tell me what, exactly, I did wrong in this instance?”

“You _encouraged_ her.” Shepard let out a noise of derision, rolling her eyes in that utterly frustrating way of hers, and Cullen grit his teeth in response. What he wouldn’t give for her to admit, just _once_ in her entire life, that he was right about something. To his surprise, however, it was not Shepard who argued back at him but the Inquisitor herself. 

“I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, Commander,” Olivia said, placing her hands on her hips as she drew herself up taller. “Shepard might have been there, but this was my choice — and my mistake.”

“So you knew about this, Cullen?” Leliana asked, her voice low and dangerous.

“I tried to talk them out of it.”

“Evidently not well enough.”

“And now we obviously cannot present the Inquisitor to King Alistair at the ball tonight,” Josephine said, looking harried. “We shall have to find a replacement.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Leliana snapped. “Put Cole in a dress?”

“I was thinking of another redhead, actually.”

The group all looked towards Shepard, who in turn looked at them like they’d gone mad. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

“There will be no one here who knows Olivia,” Josephine persisted, desperately trying to appeal to Shepard’s rational side — as if one even existed. “And those who have a passing knowledge of her appearance will accept you without question. You are the best choice, Shepard.”

“I don’t have her hand.”

“Wear gloves,” Cullen grumbled.

“Cullen, you know I can’t be the Inquisitor. I’m not…”

She trailed off with a groan, running one hand through her hair, and Cullen knew exactly why she was reluctant. There were some passing similarities between the pair — both small, both freckled, both with crimson-red hair and a smile which lit up the room — but in every way possible the Inquisitor was far more _restrained_ than Shepard. Whilst the Inquisitor’s neat waves were carefully combed back from her face, Shepard’s were wrangled — with variable success — into a braid which grew wilder with each passing hour; the Inquisitor’s eyes were blue and sparkled with curiosity and optimism, whereas the same glint in Shepard’s brown eyes only served to make Cullen worry. They appeared as they were: the Inquisitor was cautious, considered, polite to a fault — but Shepard was a force of nature, loud and relentless and the source of many, _many_ headaches in her time.

And, against his better judgement, Cullen liked the glint in Shepard’s eyes more.

“I recall you telling me that you once made a man pass out just by looking at him. I’m sure you can manage this for a week.”

Shepard groaned again, but he could tell by the twitch at the corner of her mouth that his flattery was working. “You’re clearly desperate if you’re trying to sweet talk me.”

“This entire situation is desperate,” Josephine pointed out. “If we are to have any hope of succeeding, we would also need a cover story for Olivia.”

“King Alistair believes I’m one of the castle staff,” the Inquisitor told her. “I would be able to keep up that pretence; we might find out something useful.”

“Absolutely not,” Leliana said. “We already risk ruin by presenting a false Inquisitor. If Alistair discovers you are a spy—”

“We have no alternative,” Cullen cut in. “The Inquisitor needs to be here; even if she is not present for our talks, she needs to know what is happening. And I thought you would have supported a bit of espionage, Leliana.”

“Not when the proposed spy doesn’t know the first thing of spying. And not on Alistair.” There was a strange softness in the way Leliana said the King’s name, one which Cullen could only remember hearing once before: when she’d mentioned the Hero of Ferelden.

“Perhaps we should vote on it,” the Inquisitor suggested — for which Cullen was grateful, as he was rapidly growing tired of the endless arguments. “All those in favour of Shepard as the Inquisitor?”

She raised her hand, as did Cullen and Josephine, and after a moment of hesitation Shepard did too. “I thought you were against this,” Leliana pointed out.

“Changed my mind. This way I get to have fun with accents for a week.”

“ _No_ , Shepard,” Cullen said. “You are terrible at accents.”

“My Lord, I have never been so insulted in all my life,” she said, with a highborn accent which was clearly meant to mimic the Inquisitor’s but which didn’t carry at all. “I shall see you fed to the dogs, good Ser.”

He really hated how, even in the direst of moments, she could still make him laugh, and he bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop himself from showing his amusement. 

“That sounds nothing like me!” the Inquisitor protested, but she was smiling too. “Just… do your own voice.”

“Then I’m changing back to ‘no’.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter — we still have the majority,” the Inquisitor said, beaming at the group. “Good. I shall start ingratiating myself with the palace staff, and Shepard—”

“I suggest Shepard joins me in my chambers for some last-minute etiquette lessons,” Josephine said. “I fear she might need them before tonight’s ball.”

Shepard looked desperately towards Cullen, as though he could — or even would — save her from such a fate. He merely smiled at her. He knew the Inquisition danced on a knife-edge, but it was still going to be entertaining watching her try to be demure. “Have fun, Shepard. I think the first lesson is to stop saying ‘fuck’.”

“Fuck that.”

This time he was unable to hold back his snort of amusement, and the glare Leliana shot him in return spoke volumes. “It will only be for a week, Leliana,” Josephine reassured her. “If all goes well, we shall never have to interact with the monarchy again.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair could only put off facing the Inquisition for so long, and before he was either willing or ready it was time to attend Eamon’s blasted Satinalia ball, armed as promised with his most ostentatious formalwear and a plastered-on smile. It wasn’t as though he had any particular misgivings about the Inquisition — he was far more ambivalent towards them than Teagan and Eamon were — but he didn’t see the point in all the ceremony. If he had his way, this would have been a quick meeting with a quick resolution.

Instead, it was Satinalia, and apparently he had to _host_ them.

Even amongst the crowd — and the egregious amount of Satinalia trees installed at Eamon’s behest — the Inquisition were easy to pick out, the four of them coordinated in red and gold uniforms which almost matched the decor. Leliana he recognised immediately, and the one man in the group was vaguely familiar too; as for the other two women, he assumed the smaller was the Inquisitor, knowing little of the Herald of Andraste’s appearance other than that her hair supposedly matched her namesake’s. She looked as unenthusiastic about the proceedings as Alistair felt, a faint scowl on her face as she spoke urgently with the stony-faced man accompanying her. Her countenance was a far cry from the upbeat tone of her letter accepting his invitation.

“Some wine, Your Majesty?”

He turned towards the voice only to be faced by the young woman he’d met earlier that day, now wearing the same moss-green dress as the rest of the evening servers. “You again,” he said, accepting a glass of wine from her proffered tray. “Are you spying on me?”

Vee’s eyes widened as the colour drained from her face. “Maker, no! What would have you believe that?”

He couldn’t help but feel guilty at Vee’s stricken expression, and he rushed to put her at ease with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sorry. Joking. I have a bad habit of doing that.”

“Oh,” she said, looking relieved — and ever so slightly annoyed — as she regained her composure. “I see.” She considered him for a moment before offering him a small smile of her own. “Well, I suppose I am spying in some regards. But only to ensure Your Majesty is not left without.”

She indicated to his drink, and it occurred to Alistair there was something peculiar about Vee, something which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was her voice, with her refined accent and undeniable confidence, or perhaps it was how she held his gaze in a way few others in the palace did — but she stood out, even amongst the nobles, and Alistair couldn’t help but find that intriguing.

It could have also been the fact that she was incredibly pretty. But that hardly seemed the most pressing issue.

“Tell me something,” he began, taking a sip of his drink. “You seemed to know a little of the Inquisition earlier, and Maker knows I need an opinion on this other than my uncle’s. How do people outside the palace feel about foreign forces in our countryside?”

“The Inquisition isn’t invading, Your Majesty,” Vee replied, more curtly than she had before. “Her Worship and her followers have saved the lives of countless people. Their presence here isn’t occupation; it’s aid.”

“Hmm,” he said, glancing over at the Inquisitor again, who was still engaged in a heated debate with her companions. “I’m not quite sure who she’s aiding by stealing our old forts.”

“And what did she steal them from, I wonder — overgrown shrubbery?” 

His gaze snapped back towards her. She barely seemed to realise what she’d said, still inspecting the Inquisitor with an unreadable expression — yet a moment later her eyes widened a second time as her brain caught up with her mouth, her jaw tightening as she looked apologetically at Alistair. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. That was… impertinent.”

“That does seem like a rather apt description.” He grinned. “And you can just call me Alistair — despite what I said earlier, my name isn’t actually Majesty.”

“That seems even more impertinent.”

“Not at all; I find that those who insist on using their titles are the same as those who ride Orlesian Coursers.” Her worried expression shifted as she laughed, pushing a strand of fiery hair behind her ear as she did so. For some reason, he was struck by the sudden impulse to make her smile once more. “Besides, I think you’ll find that overgrown shrubbery gives a building more personality. Now look at them — a hundred years of strategic decay, all gone to waste.”

“Oh? Do you mean to imply that submerging Caer Bronach in floodwater was strategic, Your— Alistair?”

“That is exactly what Your Alistair is implying.” She flushed and looked away, the humor in her expression disappearing as quickly as it had come, and he mentally slapped himself for having been a clod. “I mean, um. It’ll cost an arm and a leg to restore it to its water-stained glory.”

As he had hoped, she looked at him again, the tenseness in her brow fading back into a smile. His heart fluttered — which, all things considered, really was quite inconvenient. He’d clearly been alone far too long if the laughter of a beautiful woman was all it took for his stomach to twist into knots.

“So, Alistair,” she said, seeming emboldened by the permission to use his name. “Do you think—”

“Alistair.”

Vee was cut off by Eamon, who had apparently grown tired of waiting for Alistair to make the first move; he approached them with the Inquisition in tow, the redhead in the lead. “I think it’s about time you were introduced to the Inquisitor — Lady Olivia Trevelyan of Ostwick, meet King Alistair of Ferelden.”

The woman he’d rightly assumed to be the Inquisitor stepped forward, offering him a slightly awkward curtsy. “Charmed, Your Majesty.” 

Quite unlike Vee’s soft, melodic voice, the Inquisitor’s sounded forced and high-pitched. Apparently Alistair was not the only one taken by surprise by her accent, because the man beside her winced whilst Leliana glared daggers at her.

“Please excuse the Inquisitor, Alistair,” Leliana said. “I assure you: she is as brilliant as she thinks she is amusing.”

“Hey — the Inquisition might get disbanded soon,” the Inquisitor said in a far stranger — yet far more natural — accent. “I’ve got to start scouting for new jobs. I’m hoping there’s an opening for a court jester.”

“There is, actually,” Alistair told her. “But you have to be able to juggle throwing knives.”

“How about if I throw juggling knives?”

Alistair couldn’t quite tell whether she was joking or threatening him, but Eamon clearly took it as the latter, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he began to introduce the rest of the group. “And as you are already acquainted with the Inquisition’s Seneschal — please meet their Ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet, and their Commander, Ser Cullen Rutherford.”

The Ambassador’s smile was warm and her curtsy far more elegant than the Inquisitor’s had been, but the Commander remained dour, offering him a curt nod but not quite meeting his eye. 

“Commander,” Alistair said. “You seem familiar; have we met before?”

“You visited Kirkwall while I was stationed there as Knight-Captain, Your Majesty.”

Ah. That explained it. Kirkwall wasn’t where they’d first met and, based on his expression, neither the Commander nor Alistair were ignorant of that fact — for the gaunt Knight-Captain who’d avoided his gaze had been familiar then, too. He could understand why the man didn’t want to remember the first Circle they’d met in, however, especially considering he now stood next to the mage leading the Inquisition.

“Would you like a drink, Your Worship?” Vee interrupted the distinctly awkward atmosphere which had descended on them.

“Absolutely,” the Inquisitor beamed, accepting a flute of wine from her. “Thank you, Miss…”

“Shepard, Your Worship. Vee Shepard.”

“Shepard,” the Inquisitor repeated. “What an interesting name.”

“Not really. My family herd sheep.”

It seemed a strange background for one so well-spoken, and the Inquisitor apparently thought so too, narrowing her eyes at her. “That isn’t—”

“Shepard,” Commander Cullen spoke now, cutting across the Inquisitor. “Uh— serah Shepard. Perhaps you will excuse us whilst we discuss matters of state.”

It annoyed Alistair that the Commander would dismiss his staff, not least because Vee was far more interesting company than the Inquisition. “Tonight is not the night to bore ourselves senseless, Commander,” Alistair said. “That comes tomorrow.”

“Perhaps a dance, then?” Eamon suggested, looking at Alistair in a way which made him feel nervous. “Alistair, I’m sure the Inquisitor would—”

“Nope,” the Inquisitor cut him off, looking just as perturbed at the prospect of dancing as Alistair felt. “Ah— no, thank you. I don’t dance. But I do drink,” she said, quickly downing her glass of wine and picking up another. “Thank you, Miss Shepard. I count at least sixteen trees in this room, so I daresay I’ll be going through these at a rapid pace.”

She winked at her Commander before turning on her heel, taking another long sip of her drink as she swept across the room. With a quiet sigh the Commander nodded his goodbyes and followed her, and Leliana exchanged a look of exasperation with the Ambassador.

“I fear I may be following the Inquisitor around with a keg,” Vee said.

“Maybe you should,” Alistair grinned at her. “Maybe if she gets drunk enough she’ll reveal all the Inquisition’s secrets and agree to withdraw from Ferelden.”

“Or maybe we should save the negotiations for the morning, Alistair,” Leliana said, with a hard stare he couldn’t remember seeing on her before. “The Inquisition are here at your request; I had hoped you would treat us as you would any other guests.”

She shot him another glare before turning after the Inquisitor. The Ambassador offered him a sympathetic smile and another curtsy before following suit. “This week may be more fraught than we anticipated,” Eamon said, frowning at the Inquisitor’s back.

“I think so,” Alistair agreed, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “What a merry Satinalia for us all.”

\---

Cullen remained by Shepard’s side all evening, under strict orders from Josephine, who had made him promise to stay within five feet of her and ensure she didn’t cause a diplomatic incident. All things considered, she managed remarkably well. There was a minor incident where she’d joked about drinking the blood of her enemies to the Bann of West Hill, and, despite her profuse apologies, he was certain there’d been no ‘accident’ about stepping on the foot of one particularly condescending duchess. On the whole, however, he’d been impressed with her — and, he had to admit, a little proud. Even if he did prefer it when she didn’t bite her tongue.

They retreated back to their quarters a little after midnight, when King Alistair had also retired for the evening. She kicked off her boots the moment the door had closed behind them and, with a long and pained groan, flopped down face-first on the bed. 

“There’s a knife under my pillow,” she muttered into the duvet. “Please, Cullen — put me out of my misery.”

“You are being melodramatic,” Cullen said as he sat down beside her. “You only need to do this for a week.” She let out another groan in response, and he just couldn’t resist needling her a little. “Is it an appropriate time to remind you that this _is_ all your fault?”

She pushed herself up to sitting, shooting him a glare. “Don’t start with me, Rutherford. I’ve had a very difficult evening. Some man described me as ‘earthy’, and I _didn’t_ punch him in the face.”

“Your sacrifices will go down in history, I’m sure.”

“Liv seemed to be getting on with the King, too,” she continued as though she hadn’t even heard his sarcasm. “Which is shit. I could’ve spent the week bitching with you in the corner while she sweet talks the nobility, but no — she had to go and launch the least covert recon mission I’ve ever seen.” 

It did seem as though the Inquisitor had gotten into the King’s good graces; she’d been laughing with him as they’d approached, with a smile Cullen hadn’t seen in some time. The past few years had been fraught with peril and strife, and it had taken its toll on Olivia more than anyone else. At the start, in their moments alone, he’d been able to bring some levity to the harshness of her days — but even in the beginning, Cullen hadn’t been able to make her smile like _that_.

“I’m gonna get changed,” Shepard said, standing up once more. “Close your eyes.”

She’d barely given him time to register her words before she started unbuttoning her jacket, and Cullen screwed his eyes shut not a moment too soon, for in the next he heard the distinct sound of Shepard discarding her clothes onto the floor. He supposed he ought to feel flattered that she trusted him so much, but instead he felt distinctly awkward, willing her to redress quickly so he could talk to her properly again.

“Done.”

He tentatively opened his eyes, but he still wasn’t quite prepared for the sight of her, dressed in an oversized shirt but nothing else. She’d even let her hair down, her crimson curls cascading over her shoulders and down her back, flecked with gold underneath the candlelight. 

Cullen could recall being enraptured by Shepard twice before: on his first meeting with her, when she’d been invincible on the battlefield against a force which threatened to kill him, and much later, again on the battlefield, when he’d thought her dead and she’d proved him wrong yet again. Of course, there were other small moments along the way — when he’d first seen her in a dress, and when she’d faced off against him in a spar, and when she’d returned from the battle against Corypheus, bruised and bleeding yet triumphant. Truth be told, he’d always thought she was breathtaking.

But, with practice, it had become easy to forget she was beautiful.

“What?” Shepard asked, placing her hands on her hips.

Cullen realised he was staring, and he cleared his throat, trying to look anywhere except her legs. “Are you not going to get cold?”

“You’ve never been to Noveria in a blizzard.”

With that she approached the bed once more, quickly slipping underneath the covers and pulling them up to her chest. She arched an eyebrow at Cullen, patting the space beside her, and, much to his consternation, he felt himself blushing.

“Don’t tell me this is your first time.”

“I didn’t bring much in the way of nightwear,” he admitted, his entire face burning as Shepard tried and failed to suppress a grin. “I— er— I generally sleep without a shirt on.”

“Cullen Rutherford, you shameless flirt,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Come on. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

He scoffed, then with another sigh he scrunched up his eyes once more and pulled off his jacket. He kicked off his boots too, until all he was wearing was his trousers and undershirt. He was going to be uncomfortable like this, but he felt removing anything else was a step too far, and so he too slipped under the covers, quickly setting to work creating a pillow wall up the middle of the bed.

“This is really unnecessary.”

“I thought you would want your space.”

“I’ll have more space if I invade your side.”

To prove her point she stretched out, destroying his wall and nudging him in the shins and ribs. He swatted her away even as he leaned forward, one arm embracing the pillow between them as he looked at her.

“You did well tonight, Shepard,” he said.

“Just because I don’t like acting insipid doesn’t mean I can’t,” she pointed out. “And, y’know. The Inquisition is important. I’m not going to jeopardise that.”

It still occasionally surprised him when she spoke so fondly of the Inquisition, not in the least because of where she came from; sometimes he worried, despite how steadfastly she stuck to them, how small they must seem to her. Yet she only smiled warmly at him, and looked at him like he was mad when he said such things — as if, despite her past, they meant as much to her as the universe had in its time.

“You said the King recognised you because of Kirkwall,” she interrupted his thoughts. “But I got the impression there was more to it than that.”

“He was with the Hero of Ferelden. When I… in Kinloch Hold,” he trailed off, not quite able to repeat what she already knew. “I had hoped he would not remember me.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to admit the truth, to her of all people, but her eyes were wide and searching and he just couldn’t bring himself to lie. “I asked them to annul the Circle.”

He expected disgust and admonishment, even though he knew her better than that, for he couldn’t see how it could be met with anything else. Yet there was no disappointment in her voice when she spoke next, only softness.

“You never told me that.”

“Why would I?”

“Because,” she said, punching him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about what I think about you. I’ve always got your back.”

“And to think I was once worried you’d stab me in it.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she said, with the admonishment he’d been waiting for. “We’re a long way from Kirkwall.”

That much was true; he’d grown because of her, had become kinder and gentler and just, but she’d remained as intractable as ever. He hoped that would never change.

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

She stuck her tongue out at him before rolling over in bed, and it wasn’t long before her breathing turned deep and even. As he watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders it occurred to him that he’d never properly thanked her for everything; for sticking by him in Kirkwall, and upon joining the Inquisition, and everything which came thereafter. She’d been a thorn in his side, and a rock, and all he’d truly wanted in another.

For a fraction of a moment before he swiftly caught and suppressed the thought, his fingers twitched to reach across his wall and hold her.

“Thank you,” he repeated, before closing his eyes to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

A loud knock on the door woke Shepard the following morning. She bolted upright in bed, and in a brief moment of disorientation she was startled at finding another person next to her. 

Cullen was absurdly attractive in the mornings. His bleary eyes and flushed cheeks made him seem so much softer than usual, as did the mass of blond curls which had broken free from their styling overnight. Even more interesting was the fact he’d discarded his shirt at some point; she did her very best not to gawk at his broad chest and strong arms as he pushed himself upright in bed. It took only a few seconds for the confusion in his eyes to shift to recognition, and her heart clenched in fondness as he offered her a bashful, ridiculously charming smile.

Not that his appearance mattered. It was just noteworthy, seeing as he usually looked like someone had shoved a mage’s staff up his ass.

The knock on the door sounded again, distracting Shepard from the perilous route her mind had been traversing. “You need to answer it,” she hissed at Cullen. “This is supposed to be your room.”

He nodded, jumping out of bed and pulling on his shirt as he approached the door. “Who is it?” he called, voice still rough with sleep.

“Room service.”

The tension in Shepard’s shoulders relaxed at the sound of Liv’s voice, and she quickly slipped inside when Cullen opened the door. She looked between Cullen and Shepard in their various states of undress, but then shook her head, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth asking any further questions. “I may have happened upon the King’s itinerary for today,” she said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “Completely by chance, obviously.”

“That’s my girl,” Shepard grinned at her. “What’s his plan?”

“He has meetings with Lord Steward Eamon and Arl Teagan on either side of his meeting with us, and they’ll be present during. I can only assume that means he needs a brief and a debrief.”

“That isn’t surprising,” Cullen said, folding his arms as he leaned against one of the bedposts. “If you are still intent on playing the quiet chambermaid, perhaps it would be of benefit if you could be present for those meetings.”

“That was what I was thinking,” Liv said. “I wouldn’t push our luck by attempting to be present for all the meetings — but perhaps the debrief? I may be able to ascertain what he thinks of Shepard.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of us swapping back?” Shepard asked. “Pretending that we’ve always been ourselves, and acting like the King’s had a psychotic break if he questions it?”

“I’m afraid not, Shep.”

Shepard groaned, flopping back onto the bed once more.

“It shan’t be for long,” Liv continued. “And I thought you’d get on well with the King. He’s rather… irreverent.”

“He thinks he’s funnier than me. I don’t like that.” She groaned again, pushing herself into sitting once more. “Also, _Vee_ Shepard? Where did the _Vee_ come from?”

“It’s what my brother used to call me,” she shrugged. “I would have gone for something else, if you’d only just tell me your first name.”

“It’s Gertrude,” she said, and Liv rolled her eyes. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Yes. Those Fereldan keeps we claimed are still on his mind — but he’s said nothing else of any relevance to us.”

“Well, I don’t see what his problem is. It wasn’t like he was doing anything with them.”

“I would suggest you don’t say that to him during this meeting,” Cullen told her. 

“And I would suggest _you_ don’t call her Shepard again,” Liv said, shooting him an uncharacteristically hard glare. “If I hadn't been there to correct the mistake, we would be down in the dungeons as we speak.” 

Cullen said nothing, only rubbed the back of his neck as he frowned at his feet, and Shepard felt a pang of sympathy for him. After all, it was hardly his fault he’d been roped into the charade; he’d made his objections perfectly clear from the beginning. He might have argued that point with Shepard, but not so with Liv — and she wasn’t quite sure why that bothered her so much. 

Liv, apparently oblivious to Cullen’s plight, turned back to Shepard with a reassuring smile. “We shall catch up later. Good luck.”

She patted Shepard once on the shoulder before heading over to the door, only opening it a crack at first. After a quick scout of the corridor she slipped through, shutting it quietly behind her.

“Are you ever going to tell her your first name?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Shepard shrugged — and then, because she couldn’t resist asking just this once: “are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Shepard sighed, knowing a lost cause when she saw one. She heaved herself out of bed, padding over to the dressing table and turning her attention to her hair, separating the thick curls into sections as she began to braid it.

“I don’t know.”

She paused in her actions, glancing over her shoulder towards Cullen once more; he’d sat back down on the bed and now looked distinctly dejected, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular, and Shepard was struck by a peculiar urge to hug him.

“That is, I’m not quite sure what happened,” he continued, offering Shepard a sad half-smile. “She became… distant. After Adamant. I tried, but I could never seem to say what she wanted to hear. In the end she said I was better suited to someone else.”

“Did you love her?” 

“That’s a rather personal question,” he said as he arched an eyebrow at her, but she held his gaze, and a moment later he sighed in defeat. “I think I could have,” he mumbled. “If she had given me the chance.”

“Cullen—”

“It’s fine, Shepard,” he said, the vulnerability he’d briefly let through hardening once more. “I have long since gotten over it. I just sometimes—” he cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Never mind. I am going to get ready.”

She turned back to the dresser as Cullen began to undress behind her, and she tried to focus on braiding her hair and not on catching glimpses of Cullen’s bare ass in the mirror. She waited until he’d stopped rustling before turning round to face him again, shooting him a mischievous grin. 

“Look on the bright side, Rutherford. If you two had stayed coupled up, you wouldn’t be getting to share a bed with me now.”

“I knew there was a silver lining.”

He offered her that smile once more: that lopsided, roguish grin she rarely saw him wear for anyone else. She smiled back at him, because despite how rigid and stuffy he could be she did like it when he softened for her. She supposed she should have been sadder that Olivia hadn’t found those parts of him — but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to be too broken up about it.

\---

Olivia had racked her brain for some way to be present for all of the King’s meetings, but there was no way that even a servant could go ignored and unnoticed for that long — especially as the Inquisition’s morning meeting soon turned into an afternoon and then evening meeting, with the lot of them looking exhausted and fed up when they finally left. She had even scoped the room for a potential hiding spot to listen in from, before coming to the conclusion that Leliana would probably have killed her if she found out, and was glad she hadn’t gone through with it. As such, while Shepard spent the day impersonating her, she spent it in the kitchens, ingratiating herself with the palace staff in the hopes that none of them would report her as suspicious.

That was also what gave her another opening with the King. At five, the kitchen began preparing for his dinner — which he’d specifically requested he be allowed to eat alone — and she offered to take up his meal to him. Gathering his food onto a tray, she headed towards his chambers, only to find the door to his study open and the King sitting at his desk, head resting on his hand as he looked miserably at the documents in front of him.

Olivia had heard stories of the King even before she’d become the Inquisitor, of how he’d saved his country during the Blight and now ruled it with wit and grace, but until this moment he’d never really seemed _human_ to her. Now there was something painfully familiar in the way he sat, with the weight of the world on his shoulders — and, for the first time since she’d arrived at the palace, she regretted not being herself with him.

“Your Majesty.”

He jumped as she spoke, startled out of his reverie, and his expression quickly cleared into a far more jovial one. “I thought I asked you not to call me that,” he said.

“Alistair,” she corrected, placing the tray of food down next to him. “May I ask how your meeting went?”

He sighed, picking at a piece of bread but not eating it. “It went about as well as is to be expected. The Inquisitor didn’t threaten me with throwing knives again, although her Commander did spend the entire time making frowny faces at me.”

Olivia snorted, knowing only too well the expression he was referring to. “I’m under the impression that frown has half of the Orlesian court in love with him.”

Alistair grinned, leaning in as though about to reveal some big secret. “The Inquisitor too, I’ve heard,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Oh— no,” Olivia said before she could stop herself. “That ended some time ago.”

Alistair arched an eyebrow at her, and she cursed herself for not thinking before she spoke. “You seem to know an awful lot about it.”

“My cousin works at Skyhold,” she told him, surprising herself with how easily the lie came to her. “In the kitchens. She writes to me about developments there — mainly the gossip.”

“Well, the gossip is the most important thing,” Alistair said, accepting her lie with a surprising lack of heed. “They seem close enough now. I wonder what happened between them.”

Olivia didn’t trust herself to say anything further, as it had been that selfsame closeness which had made Olivia see the truth. The pair had been nigh inseparable ever since Shepard had arrived at Skyhold, and Cullen had become _more_ around her. With Olivia, he’d dutifully smiled at her and rubbed the back of his neck when she’d flirted with him, but with Shepard he laughed, and challenged her, and turned into a person Olivia didn’t know but had desperately wanted to. They were only friends, or so they thought, but it had made Olivia realise what she’d wanted: not only a partner, but a friend — someone who saw her beyond the title she wore. 

After seeing the two of them together, it had been impossible to ignore the fact that she’d never have that with Cullen.

“But what do I know?” Alistair continued cheerfully. “I’m Ferelden’s perpetual bachelor. Or ‘lost cause’, if you listen to my uncle.”

She didn’t believe that for a second; even if he wasn’t the King, she was sure his good looks and easy manner could win the heart of anyone he chose. “I daresay you could have any woman in the court, if you applied yourself.”

“That rather relies on me wanting to apply myself,” he mumbled, his expression clouding over. “It’s been a long time since I wanted…” he began, then stopped, looking at her with a faint frown as though he hadn’t even realised what he’d been saying. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said, shaking his head and forcing back that genial smile once more. “There are more important things to worry about. Say, your cousin wouldn’t have happened to let slip anything more about the Inquisition, would she?”

“With all due respect, Alistair, I wouldn’t tell you even if she had.”

She thought she might have gone too far with that, but Alistair simply let out a mock gasp, placing his hand over his heart. “And after all I’ve done for Ferelden! My Lady, you wound me.”

She was used to being called _my Lady_ by now; she’d heard it countless times when playing host to her own court, from people who never would have looked at her had it not been for the mark on her hand. But from the King, who knew nothing of her birth let alone her title, the term felt oddly genuine — as though he truly meant the words, despite the distance he must have perceived between them.

“I suppose I shall leave you to your work,” she murmured; there was no use in dwelling on that distance now.

“Ah — yes, thank you,” Alistair said, looking down at the papers he’d apparently forgotten about and then back to her. “We’re — uh — we’re hosting a Satinalia dinner for the Inquisition tomorrow evening. Will I see you there?” 

His eyes were wide and earnest, and the twinge she felt in her gut could no longer be attributed to her fear of being caught in her deception. He seemed to read her hesitation, because he hurried to speak once more. “Not because I want you to wait on me,” he said, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. “It would just be nice to have a friendly face around. Leliana’s one, of course, but she seems a lot more stabby than preachy these days — which is saying something, considering how stabby she was even as a lay sister. I’m rambling now,” he said, shuffling his papers as he avoided her gaze. “I’ll see you later, Vee. Or not. I’m sure you’re very busy. Lots of Satinalia-y things to do and all that.”

She curtsied before leaving his room at a reasonable pace, despite the voice in the back of her mind telling her to run. Regardless of who she was pretending to be, she was still the Inquisitor; she was here to protect her organisation, and she couldn’t let anything — not even a King with a charming smile — stop her from accomplishing what she had set out to do.

Still, despite her better judgement, all she could think of was how much she wanted to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has kudosed/subscribed/commented so far, we're glad you're enjoying this! There are plenty of hijinks and unnecessary balls still to come so stay tuned :D


	5. Chapter 5

It was surprisingly easy to infiltrate the palace staff, so much so that Olivia wondered how Alistair hadn’t already been assassinated; they were spread so thin with the Satinalia celebrations that they were grateful for any extra hands, regardless of who those hands belonged to. As such, it became easy for her to take on any role she fancied — from maid to cook to waitress, nothing seemed out of the question.

She made a mental note to speak to Cullen and ensure that they never let down their guard at Skyhold in quite such an egregious manner — though she rather doubted it. He was nothing if not studious, and she couldn’t claim to be a carefree sort, either.

On their third day at the palace she decided to stay out of the way, determined to cause no more stress for Leliana than necessary, and so once she rose she quickly made her way towards the kitchens, set on staying out of sight and simply serving from the backdrop for the day. As she approached the kitchens she could smell the day’s baking already underway, yet when she entered they seemed empty at first.

Then she spotted Alistair.

He was in the furthest corner of the kitchen, half-shielded by the obligatory Satinalia tree and dressed distinctly unroyally. Entirely without crown and with his sleeves pushed back to his elbows, he rolled out dough on the countertop, and she briefly considered that she ought to leave him to the privacy he so clearly sought. Yet before she knew what she was doing, she had cleared her throat to catch his attention.

“Vee!”

His gaze snapped up from his work, and he smiled warmly at her. “I fear you’ve discovered me neglecting my duties.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” She answered his smile with one of her own before approaching his workstation. “What are you making?”

“Oh — yes, I suppose it may be difficult to tell what they’re meant to be, misshapen as they are. Satinalia trees — as said, rather misshapen ones.” He gestured to the globs of dough spread across the table, varying in their ability to pass off as trees. “I can make the dough itself well enough, but unfortunately adding any decorative flair is beyond my capabilities.”

“So I see.” Olivia lifted a hand to her mouth, struggling to stifle a giggle — in all truth, at least a few of the so-called trees were somewhat phallic in appearance. 

“What?” Alistair asked, looking from her to his creations and then back again. “Why is your face so red?”

“I— no reason,” she said, feeling herself go even redder as she did her best to avoid the issue. “So, you’re not a good decorator?”

“I would be lying if I said I meant for them to come out looking like this.” He glanced back at her and grinned. “I entirely agree, they do look like something you hopefully wouldn’t sink your teeth into.” 

She coughed lightly, trying to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. “When I was a child,” she said, determining that changing the subject might be best, “decorating was my favorite part.”

“You should have said so sooner!” Alistair moved to the side in one exaggerated motion and gestured to the table. “Please, save me from my own incompetence.”

Before she’d even decided to do so, she found herself opening her mouth to say yes, but stopped herself in the nick of time. She looked down at her gloved hands, and then back at him.

“I…”

He could clearly see the refusal in her eyes before she said the words, and his face fell just slightly before he managed to wrangle a smile back across his features. “It wasn’t a kingly order, or anything. You’re of course welcome to refuse if you want to.” 

She somehow couldn’t bear to disappoint him. “It’s not that, it’s just that, I— uh...” She stumbled, cursing herself mentally for not being a more competent liar. Suddenly, she was struck by inspiration. “I sliced my hand open in the kitchen earlier,” she explained. “I wouldn’t want to bleed all over your Satinalia… trees.”

His smile immediately brightened. “Oh, that’s not a problem — you can’t really make them any worse than they already are. Or, if you’d like to, you can just wear your gloves. These are only for me, anyway, and unless you’ve been cleaning the castle’s poison stores recently I’m sure my body can withstand whatever’s on them.”

That settled, she nodded and took a place beside him to reshape some of his more egregiously misshapen trees into slightly more respectable form. They stood quietly side by side for a while, with the exception of Alistair humming tunelessly under his breath as he worked the dough into small, concentric circles for her to shape. 

Five dough balls later, he turned to her suddenly. “Thanks for agreeing to help me with this, by the way. It’s something I do every year to get away from all the… royalty business, but it does always feel a little lonely.”

Forgetting herself for a moment, Olivia scoffed — she would’ve given quite a lot to be _lonely_ in Skyhold sometimes. “Lonely? You must be surrounded by people every waking hour.”

The smile on his lips didn’t quite touch his eyes. “I am — but do you not find that being surrounded by people isn’t always the same as actually being _with_ someone?”

She hadn’t thought about it quite that way before, but now that he’d said it, she could understand what he meant. It was the difference between how it had been with Cullen and how Shepard regarded her — reverence versus humanity. “Hm. I suppose you’re right.”

They fell into a comfortable silence again, each concentrating on their own task and not the other. When the last phallus had been salvaged into a tree, Olivia looked up to see Alistair turn quickly away, almost as if caught out.

No — that couldn’t be right. He must have just been looking to the side. Olivia cleared her throat to catch his attention, then gestured to the raw cookies in front of her. “So… do you believe these will suffice?”

“They’ll be the most beautiful cookies I’ve ever had a hand in making.” His tone surprised her with its fervency — and possibly him, too, as he coughed and turned his head quickly to the side again, cheeks reddening. “So, er… to the oven, then, I suppose.”

They made short work of placing their first batch of cookies in the oven, then settled down to wait for them to bake.

“Will they take long, do you think?” Alistair asked her and hopped up to sit on the table facing the oven, patting the wood by his side to encourage her to join him.

“Isn’t this your recipe?” Not one to hop up on countertops, Olivia instead leaned against it and looked up at him. She found herself absentmindedly pondering that he looked even taller from this angle, then quickly corrected her line of thinking — she was not going to let her mind get away from her. Not with the literal King of Ferelden, and certainly not when she was pretending to be a serving girl.

“Ah. Yeah. About ten to twelve minutes, usually.” He grinned, seeming entirely unabashed at being caught out. “Sorry, I sometimes have a hard time making small talk with beautiful women.”

Olivia froze. Perhaps he _had_ been looking at her, after all.

When she didn’t immediately respond, Alistair reached up to rub a hand across his face before offering her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Again. I don’t why I said that — I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m not some drooling lecher or anything. It’s not… that’s not...” He paused very deliberately and took a deep breath. “Right. What I mean is, please disregard the previous. I spoke without thinking, and it was inappropriate. I apologise.”

“It’s alright.” In another world, one where she hadn’t inadvertently forced herself into subterfuge, the situation would be quite different. With things as they were, however, he was right: it was inappropriate for him to make such a comment. He didn’t know them to be equals, and she couldn’t reveal them as such, no matter how often she slipped up and accidentally spoke to him as one. She was, or was meant to be, a serving girl and he was the King.

Still, her heart fluttered in her chest. “I don’t mind,” she added — and it was true. She didn’t mind one bit. In fact, if things had been different, she may have even responded in kind.

“Right.” He smiled again, that disarming, infectious smile of his, and the conversation flowed back onto safer terrain: namely, cookies. By the time they took the first batch out of the oven they were both back at ease, and Olivia smiled down at their creations.

“They don’t look half bad now, do they?” Alistair said.

He reached out to take one, and Olivia’s hand shot forward before she’d thought the action through, grabbing his hand before he could burn himself on the freshly-baked trees. His eyes widened as his gaze snapped towards her, and she knew she’d overstepped a boundary — and yet she couldn’t bring herself to let his hand go.

“I thought I smelled cookies!”

Olivia jumped back from Alistair at the interruption and turned to see Shepard — of course it was Shepard — waltz into the room. She stopped as she caught sight of the pair of them, still standing far closer than was entirely appropriate. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to interrupt a date.”

“This isn’t—” she and Alistair began in unison, but Olivia quickly fell silent, allowing him to finish as she remembered her supposed position. She exchanged a look with him before he turned to Shepard, seeming distinctly uncomfortable.

“You’ve misunderstood, Inquisitor. Vee here was simply helping me with these cookies.”

“I see.” Shepard approached them, her eyebrow arched as she inspected the tray before them, and Olivia could tell by the glint in her eyes what came next would only make things worse. “Cookies,” Shepard repeated, picking up one of the few Olivia hadn’t managed to salvage. “I think I’d actually describe these as cock—”

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” she cut her off abruptly, feeling her cheeks burning, then quickly remembered her place once more. “I— um. Is everything to your satisfaction in your room?”

She widened her eyes at Shepard, desperate for an out from the confusing feelings Alistair’s continued presence elicited within her. Thankfully, Shepard picked up on it. “Actually, no. I think there’s a problem with the fireplace.”

“There’s a fireplace in your room?”

Olivia had no idea how Alistair could have so little knowledge about the goings on in his own castle. She certainly knew the guest quarters of Skyhold in and out — though, in fairness, she supposed the castle of Denerim was a slightly larger building. “Of course, Inquisitor. I shall see to it at once.”

“Great. Thanks.” Shepard grabbed a handful of cookies. “These are mine now,” she said pointedly at Alistair, as if daring him to contradict her.

“Right. As you say, Inquisitor.”

Alistair looked bemused by Shepard’s flagrant disregard for social niceties, but Olivia had no time to smooth it over before Shepard was already making a beeline for the door. Staring at her feet she ducked into a hurried curtsy to avoid meeting Alistair’s eye, then rushed to catch up with Shepard.

“What was _that_ about?” Shepard hissed at her as they turned down the corridor and came to a stop beneath a particularly gaudy Satinalia garland.

Olivia shrugged, feigning nonchalance to the best of her ability. “I cannot very well decline to help if the King asks it of me. I’m supposed to be a servant, after all.” She smiled at her, a little tersely, for she couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the interruption — even if it had been for the best. “So, Your Worship — your fireplace has an issue?”

\---

After two days of pretending to be the Inquisitor, Shepard was slowly but surely losing her mind. Even in her own universe, when war felt insurmountable yet all looked to her for salvation, she hadn’t experienced the sort of reverence that she did here; wherever she walked servants gasped and nobles bowed deeply and no-one talked to her properly, only gushed their appreciation for both her and the Maker. Indeed, everyone in Ferelden seemed to love the Inquisitor — except for the King and his two goons. 

The King seemed decent enough, even if _he_ was allowed to make jokes but whenever she was about to Cullen trod on her foot or nudged her in the ribs. His advisers — or uncles, as he occasionally addressed them — were a different story, and neither was as respectful or as good-natured as him. They weren’t overtly impolite, but it was clear they didn’t hold her or the Inquisition in high regard, and it took everything in her to heed Josephine’s instructions and not threaten to put either of their heads through a wall.

She was in desperate need of a reprieve, and it seemed as though Josephine had taken mercy on her, for the next day her schedule was clear until their dinner with the King. She didn’t know what she was going to do with her free time, but she did know she needed to get out of the palace. After a brief stop in the kitchens — which included a bizarre run-in with Liv and the King — she headed down to the stables to fetch her horse.

It perhaps shouldn’t have surprised her that Cullen had chosen the same retreat; he was dressed down like she was as he fed his horse an apple, his usual fur mantle exchanged for a coat notable for its lack of Inquisition insignia. She got the sense he was also plotting an escape.

“You didn’t wake me before you left this morning,” she said as she approached him, giving his horse a pat on the neck. “That’s very ungentlemanly.”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you ever going to give this a rest?”

“In the six years we’ve known each other, have I ever given anything a rest?”

“Good point,” he said, looking thoughtful as he scratched his horse behind her ears. “Maker. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long.”

“I know. You get less for armed robbery.” She winked at him before grabbing a saddle from the wall and setting to work tacking up her horse. “So,” she continued. “Day trip?”

“Not if we’re going to rob something.”

She paused in her work to grin at him over her horse’s saddle. “We’d have fun as highwaymen, Cullen. You could pretend to be a damsel in distress at the side of the road, and then when you’ve lured in some hopeless noble I could jump out and threaten to stab them.”

“Could we not alternate the damsel in distress role?”

“Nah. I’m way more threatening than you. And you’re way prettier than me.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, taking her by surprise — and, even more surprisingly, her heart did a single, entirely unjustified flip in response. “I— uh— I meant the threatening thing,” he clarified as his mind appeared to catch up with his mouth. “Wait— no, not that you aren’t— uh…”

She could have pointed out that he was the furthest thing from threatening imaginable when he blushed and stuttered like that. He was actually completely adorable, which was why she chose to move on from the topic before she could think too much on what he’d said — or before he could say something else which would elicit _that_ response from her heart again. Instead she quickly finished tacking up her horse, only looking at him properly once more when both their horses were in the courtyard and the last remnants of blush had disappeared from his cheeks.

“Are we going anywhere in particular?” Cullen asked as they cleared the city gates.

“I was going to follow you,” Shepard told him. “You’re the Fereldan.”

“I haven’t been to Denerim since I was a boy. Even then, I didn’t pay much attention to the trip.”

Shepard sighed, nudging her horse in the opposite direction from the city, without any clear plan or destination. With the white expanse of snow stretching out across the landscape, she doubted she would have been able to follow a particular route anyway, and so simply aimed for the tree line in the distance. “We could always take a trip to see your family,” she suggested.

“South Reach is too far away to reach in a day,” he replied. “But my sister did invite me to spend First Day with them.”

“Are you going to go?”

He didn’t reply immediately, his brow furrowed as his gaze remained fixed on his horse’s mane. It hadn’t been the first time Cullen had been invited back to see his family. On each previous occasion, however, he’d come up with a reason why he couldn’t leave Skyhold, despite how Shepard had encouraged him to go. Anyone who knew him less well would think he didn’t want to see his family, but she could see the worry in his eyes as he read the requests and heard the doubt in his voice when he made his excuses.

“I am not sure now is the best time,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

“There is too much to do still. Who knows what will come of this week, and after that we have the Exalted Council to prepare for.”

She could hear that doubt again, as though he didn’t believe he was wanted — or, even worse, that he wouldn’t be wanted a second time. “You know, Cullen,” she said softly, and perhaps more sincerely than she ever had before. “I’m still here after six years for a reason.”

She couldn’t quite read the look he returned her, a strange mix of disbelief and gratitude and something else she couldn’t place, and she hoped it would be enough to convince him. “Will you come with me?” he asked. “I could— if you were…”

He trailed off with a groan, his gaze falling back to his horse’s mane, and she wasn’t quite sure whether or not she wanted to hear what he was trying to say. Still, she couldn’t let him down when he asked this of her — and besides, as she was apparently being overcome with Satinalia spirit now, he was the only one she wanted to spend time with anyway.

“Yeah. Of course I will.”

He smiled warmly at her, and that was about the limit of how much sentimentality she could deal with today. She drew herself up taller on her horse, shooting him a grin. “Come on. I’ll race you.”

Before he could say anything she urged her horse forward into a canter, shooting towards the tree line and pushing faster when she heard Cullen coming up behind her. “Where are we racing to?!” he shouted as they crossed into the forest.

“I’ll tell you when I get there first!”

She could just make out his laughter between the pounding of hooves against the ground. She had to slow her pace as the trees thickened, and Cullen drew level with her as they dodged between the firs. Her horse was faster in the open but he was the more disciplined rider; on this terrain, he had the advantage. He quickly pulled ahead of her, then in front of her, cutting her path short as he slowed his mare back to a walk.

He shot her a smug grin over his shoulder as she slowed — far less gracefully than him — to match his pace. He circled back to walk beside her, still looking intolerably pleased with himself. “Don’t even think it,” she warned.

“Think what?” he asked. “That I could beat you on a horse with three legs?”

“You really do get—” she began, but cut herself off as her horse suddenly pulled up, shaking her mane and pulling against the reins. “What is it, Mako?”

“We should turn back,” Cullen said, patting his own horse in reassurance as he squinted to try and see what Mako had sensed through the trees. “We don’t—”

They heard it then, a low growl which made the hairs on the back of Shepard’s neck stand on end. She swivelled in her saddle to see three wolves approaching them from their flank. Before she could react, Mako reared, and Shepard’s fingers grasped fruitlessly for her mane before falling hard into the snow.

“Shepard!”

The fall winded her, leaving her gasping for breath as Mako galloped back towards the tree line. As she tried to summon the energy to yell at the stupid creature, Cullen appeared at her side. He pulled her roughly to her feet, then readied his sword as the largest wolf in the pack snarled at them. “That — fucking — horse!” she hissed, grasping at the stitch in her side.

“Get your weapons out!”

“Wha— no!” she said, because even though the wolves were now within pouncing distance stabbing them felt ever so slightly cruel. “Here, I’ll—”

She still didn’t quite have the breath to express herself, and so she simply acted, thrusting her hands out in front of her and Throwing the wolves back into the trees. It was nowhere near her full strength, but still they whimpered as they clattered against the tree trunks, crashing to the ground and then scrambling back up to their feet before fleeing — well, limping — back into the deeper woods. Shepard breathed a sigh of relief as they disappeared, then winced as the motion shot pain through her chest.

“Are you okay?” Cullen said, sheathing his sword as he approached her, concern clouding his features.

“Fine, fine,” she waved him off, rummaging in her satchel to locate any of her supplies that would ease her pain. She shoved her scarf into Cullen’s hands as she dug to the bottom of her bag, and then her journal, and then a handful of Liv’s — now broken — biscuits before finally locating what she was after. “Ah-ha!” she exclaimed, quickly downing her small vial of health draught.

“Why do you have a bag full of broken biscuits?”

“I got them off Liv and the King. You can have one if you want.”

“I— what?”

“Yeah, it was weird,” Shepard agreed, grabbing the rest of her belongings from Cullen and shoving them back into her bag. “I walked in on them baking in the kitchen. I think they were flirting, actually.” They’d definitely been flirting, but she realised that Cullen was probably the last person who wanted to hear about it, so she quickly changed the subject. “I feel really bad about those wolves. I think I Threw them too hard.”

“I could point out that you’re currently bleeding from your lip.”

He reached out towards her, one gloved hand resting on her cheek as he brushed his thumb over her injured lip. The gesture seemed to take him by surprise as much as it did her, his eyes widening a fraction as he looked at his hand and then back into her eyes — and yet, she noted, he didn’t pull away. 

Shepard could remember wanting to kiss Cullen just once before. They’d sparred in the courtyard under a relentless sun, and as he’d pinned her to the ground she’d wondered, ever so briefly, what it would be like to lean forward and press her lips against his. But the moment had passed, and they had moved on, and all which remained of that day was his smugness over his victory.

That moment had passed, and this one would too... if only he’d stop looking at her like that.

“We should go before those wolves come back,” she muttered, breaking away from him, and that seemed to startle him back into sense. He cleared his throat as he rubbed the back of his neck, turning back to his horse with a faint frown written across his face.

“We should find Mako, too,” he said. “Though I am sure she has only retreated to the forest edge.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in that traitor anymore.”

He chuckled, and with that the moment was gone, the brief threat they’d faced buried once more in laughter. Still, despite the lightness with which they spoke on their walk back through the forest, she just couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that something had shifted between them.


	6. Chapter 6

Dinner with the Inquisition was about as vexing as Alistair had anticipated. It may have actually been better without Teagan and Eamon there; they seemed set on ensuring the proceedings were carried out in the _correct_ way, quick to shut down any conversation they deemed unsavoury or impolite for a dinner party. With the Inquisitor there, complete with a cut lip and a worrying glint in her eye, that was most topics. Alistair had to admit, he found himself entertained — if also marginally terrified — by her stories of rifts and bloodshed and under other circumstances he might have enjoyed competing with her. Any hopes of having an interesting conversation were interrupted as soon as they’d begun, however, either by his people or hers.

At least Vee was there, he supposed. She didn’t say anything, but she did smile at him whenever she served a new course — and whatever else the evening may throw at him, it would be worth it if it meant he got to see her smile.

“Corypheus is all very well and good,” Alistair said, ignoring Eamon’s tenth pointed cough. “But he’s no archdemon.”

“Alistair, I really don’t think this is appropriate for—”

“Yeah, I heard about that oversized lizard. Impressive,” the Inquisitor spoke over Teagan, looking anything but impressed. “Wait until you hear about Kalros — ooh, Cullen, did we bring my omni—”

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” the Commander cut her off, with a glare so deep Alistair felt he might have wilted under it. The Inquisitor only rolled her eyes, however, before taking another long sip of her wine.

“Fine, fine. I’m just discreetly trying to reiterate that we could kick his ass if he tries to—”

“Satinalia!” Ambassador Josephine interrupted, shooting Leliana a desperate look. “Your — ah — your Satinalia decoration is most charming, Your Majesty,” she said, indicating to one of the four trees which lined the dining room. Alistair had no idea where Eamon had gotten them all from. “In Antiva, our celebrations can last more than a week; I did not realise Ferelden did the same.”

“Ordinarily we don’t,” Eamon told her with a polite smile. “But we thought we’d make the exception for our guests.”

“I hear you’re from Ostwick, Inquisitor,” Alistair said, trying to make conversation which Eamon wouldn’t disapprove of. “How do you celebrate Satinalia there?”

She shrugged. “We didn’t really celebrate it in the Circle.”

“But what about before?” 

She hesitated, a peculiar expression on her face as if considering whether his innocent question was a trap. “Me and my brothers would stay awake all night to try and catch Santa in the act,” she began, then stopped, looking uncertainly towards the Commander. “Er— do you have Santa here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, in Ostwick they tell kids that if you’re good, Santa Claus will come and deliver you presents. But me and my brothers were never particularly good. One year we set a trap to try and catch him. My mom’s scream woke half the town.” She smiled to herself, but it disappeared as soon as it came, her expression turning strangely sad. “Then in the afternoon my dad would cook a huge dinner, and me and my mom would play Chr— Satinalia songs on our piano.”

“You must have missed them after you went to the Circle.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Yeah, I missed them a lot.”

She poked morosely at the remaining chicken on her plate, and Alistair felt himself thaw towards her. To his surprise, he saw the Commander lean forward with clear intent. He caught the Inquisitor’s eye and gave her a soft smile, and the tension in her shoulders ebbed in response. 

Huh — it seemed Vee’s cousin had been wrong about them, after all.

“Lord Trevelyan cooks?” Eamon asked, a little disbelieving.

“Yep,” the Inquisitor said, truly putting aside any residual vulnerability her countenance may have held moments before. “He does a mean roast turkey.”

Before Eamon could enquire further on the Bann’s cooking abilities, the doors to the kitchen opened and half a dozen servants appeared to clear away their plates and present them with dessert. 

“You know, Inquisitor, we do have one thing in common,” Alistair said, indicating to Vee as she began to top up their glasses. “Vee here has a cousin who works for you.” Eamon glanced at him disapprovingly, but he paid him no mind — if he wasn’t allowed to talk about anything interesting regarding battle, he could at least be allowed to refer to his servants as human beings. Just this once.

“Is that so?” the Inquisitor said, arching an eyebrow at Vee.

“Yes, Your Worship,” she said, smiling sweetly at the Inquisitor. “Her name is Gertrude. She speaks very highly of you.”

The Inquisitor looked distinctly unimpressed by Vee, as she had done on their first meeting, and Alistair couldn’t figure out why she seemed to dislike her so. Perhaps the Inquisitor didn’t like the clear confidence in one of a lesser rank, or perhaps she thought such interaction was now beneath her. Still, it annoyed Alistair, not least because it was Vee’s convictions that had encouraged him to compromise with them. “So you see, Inquisitor, I do hope we can come to a mutually beneficial compromise by the end of this week,” Alistair said. “I would not wish to upset your people — especially not when they are an extension of our people.”

Vee beamed at him. She was absolutely going to get him into trouble with Eamon — but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I hope the same,” Vee continued. “I— _ah_!”

She cut off with a cry mid-sentence, the jug of wine falling from her grip and splashing its contents all over Alistair as she clutched her hand in pain. He jumped up from his seat, far more concerned with her well-being than his drenched clothes as he put a hand on her shoulder, frowning at the gloved hand which seemed to be responsible for her distress. To their credit, the Inquisitor and Commander Cullen also jumped up, rounding the table to approach Vee.

“Your Majesty, I am _so_ sorry—”

“Never mind that; what’s the matter?”

“My hand — the one I cut yesterday in the kitchens,” she said, with a stoic expression which didn’t quite conceal the pain she was in. “I must have held the jug too tightly. I’m so sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Allow me to have a look at it; in the Blight I—”

“No!” she exclaimed, wedging her hand underneath her armpit and trying her best to smile at him. “No, thank you, Your Majesty. I think I just need to rest it.”

“Yeah, sit down,” the Inquisitor said, pulling out a chair for her. “You should—”

“Thank you, Your Worship, but I cannot sit amongst you,” Vee replied through gritted teeth, still clutching her hand. “Please excuse me. I shall ensure more wine is brought out momentarily.”

Before Alistair could protest Vee had rushed back to the kitchens and slammed the door behind her. Absurdly, he wanted to follow her. His dealings with the Inquisition may have theoretically been more important — but, truth be told, that couldn’t be further from his mind.

“Strange girl,” the Inquisitor said, sitting back down at her dessert. “But I guess she’s right. I guess for people like her it’s important that we come to an agreement here.”

“Exactly,” Eamon said with a pointed look towards Alistair, and he just about suppressed a sigh as he sat back down in his soaking clothes. “Now, whilst we’re on that point, perhaps we could re-discuss your watchtowers in the Hinterlands…”

\---

Back in the kitchens, away from the eyes of the cooks and servers, Liv glared at her hand, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t the pain so much as the pain’s completely inconsiderate timing; it had ruined the evening, and Alistair’s shirt to boot.

Her hand had been getting steadily worse over the last few months. It had started as twinges in the middle of the night, and at first she’d been able to dismiss them as part of her dreams — but now there was no denying, when her mark flared angry and green, that the power in it was beginning to overtake her. It wouldn’t be long before it became too much to bear. She understood her duty, and knew the price she would have to pay for world’s safety, and that was fine — but sometimes, when she was feeling particularly sorry for herself, she raged quietly in her quarters over how fleeting her freedom had been.

It was particularly ridiculous that, despite the fear for her own mortality, she was worried about embarrassing herself in front of Alistair.

“Are you gonna help clean up?” a voice sounded behind her. She jumped, quickly replacing her glove as she began to busy herself with stacking dirty dishes. “There’s plenty more in the dining room — clear them out first.”

She nodded, avoiding the eye of the stern cook as she slipped back into the dining room and busied herself with clearing the plates from the table. The Inquisition had retreated, as had Alistair, but Lord Steward Eamon and Arl Teagan still remained deep in discussion. The steward barely offered her more than a glance as he continued their conversation.

“She is rather… spirited,” the arl said, clearly referencing Shepard.

“That’s one word for it,” the steward muttered. “I’m telling you, Teagan: it will not work.”

“Just give me one more day to try to convince him — and then you can do whatever you want.”

“Are you saying you no longer have faith in your plan?”

“No. If anything, after seeing her I think we have a better chance of success than ever.” There was a pregnant pause, and Olivia chanced a look up from her work; Lord Steward Eamon appeared impassive, inspecting his glass of whiskey intently, whilst Arl Teagan narrowed his eyes at him. 

“Alistair is not one to shirk his duty — but, in this, he has been recalcitrant.”

“I know he’s never shown interest before, but perhaps this ti—” The arl broke off mid-sentence, only now seeming to register Olivia’s presence in the room. 

She smiled demurely at the men as she began to gather up their plates too. 

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” the steward said, rising from his chair. “I hope your hand is better soon, my dear.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Arl Teagan also rose from his seat, quickly following the steward out the room. Olivia allowed a moment for their footsteps to fade into the distance before ditching her plates and racing towards Shepard and Cullen’s quarters. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d heard, but it had filled her with unease. Though Leliana was the Spymaster, she knew Shepard would be more willing to conspire with her.

She didn’t even wait for anyone to reply to her knocks before slipping into their quarters, marginally disappointed that Cullen was also there. The pair sat at the little table by the window, playing chess with what Olivia recognised as Cullen’s travel set. He had discarded his armour and untucked his shirt and reclined almost lazily in his chair, a smirk on his face as he watched Shepard try to figure out the trap he’d left for her on the board. He’d never been that relaxed around Olivia, and though that had once made her heart ache, now she just despaired that he couldn’t see what had always been so clear to her.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, immediately pushing back from the table on her entrance and standing up straight, the rigid and professional Commander quickly returning to his countenance. “Is something the matter?”

“I hope so. It’s very rude for servants to barge into rooms unannounced,” Shepard said as she indiscreetly pocketed one of Cullen’s knights.

“He’s up to something,” Olivia said as she approached the pair. “Lord Steward Eamon.”

“Is that the one with the beard or the one with the bad hat?”

“Wha— the one with the beard, but that doesn’t matter. I overheard him talking to the arl. Something about a plan.”

“It is hardly surprising that they have a plan for negotiations,” Cullen said, folding his arms over his chest. “But don’t worry. I doubt the King is planning to impersonate a member of staff in order to ingratiate himself with the Inquisition.”

Olivia merely scowled at him before turning her attention to the commander who was more likely to listen to her. “They said something about ‘asking too much of Alistair’. I just think we should—” 

“ _No_.”

“Cullen, you haven’t even heard—”

“You are not here for me; you are here for Shepard,” he continued, meeting her glare with one of his own. “I can only assume because you think you have a chance of persuading her to ransack the King’s quarters.”

“Well, say no more,” Shepard said, jumping up from her seat and beaming at Olivia. “I’m in.”

“Shepard, _no_. You two risk far too much already by playing this ridiculous game of identity swap.” He’d started to pace the room, his agitation obvious in his jerky steps, and even Olivia felt a little guilty for putting him through this. “I fear this is getting too much. We should excuse ourselves, return to Skyhold before—”

“Cullen,” Shepard cut him off with a raise of her hand, and he fell silent immediately. “Give us a minute.”

“You— are you throwing me out of my own room?!”

“Yes.”

Cullen let out a noise of disbelief, then paused, seeming to realise that Shepard wasn’t going to budge. He grunted once more in disapproval, marched out the door and slammed it shut behind him. Shepard paid him no attention, her eyes focused on Olivia so intently it felt like she was trying to read her mind.

“Your hand’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Olivia ducked her head, not wanting to admit as much out loud.

“Is that why you keep launching these suicide missions?” she continued.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” Shepard sighed, and when Olivia looked up at her there was no disappointment in her face, only worry. Shepard took a step forward, extending her hand to her. “Can I see?”

Reluctantly, Olivia took off her gloves, extending her scarred hand to Shepard. Though it wasn’t sparking furiously anymore it still looked angry, the green spreading up her wrist and flaring with each clench of her hand. “Well,” Shepard said, holding Olivia’s hand gently. “Where’s a boring bald apostate when you need him?”

Olivia let out a humourless laugh. “I have half of Leliana’s scouts out looking for him, but we’ve turned up nothing. I don’t understand how he seems to have just vanished into thin air.” She paused, and she knew she should stop there, but bitterness compelled her to keep talking. “And I thought we respected each other — though I suppose I may have been mistaken in that.”

“With or without Solas, you’re going to be fine,” she said, with such conviction that she made Olivia believe it too. “Viv’s already looking into it — and don’t tell her I said so, but she’s a way better mage. Better dresser, too.”

Olivia scoffed, but Shepard was right: there was no use dwelling on it further before they’d even explored all their options. Besides, they had more pressing tasks to attend. “So. Are we doing this?” she asked, putting her gloves back on.

“Of course we are. Let’s go.”

The pair stepped out into the corridor, only to find Cullen still there; he was leaning against the opposite wall, with a scowl that deepened on seeing them. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes, we are,” Olivia said brightly, starting to lead Shepard in the direction of the King’s quarters.

“Don’t wait up.”

“Inquisitor, Shepard — stop — the two of you cannot—”

“If you want to join us, Rutherford, you only need to ask,” Shepard said, neither of them breaking their stride as Cullen jogged to keep up with them.

“Stop being absurd.”

“Never,” Shepard grinned at him. “Come on. You know you’ll have fun.”

Cullen groaned, but kept up his pace next to them. “I am only coming with you so I can say ‘I told you so’. Again.”

“Sure you are,” Shepard said. “You know, if you’re really so—”

“Shh!” Olivia said, throwing out her arm to stop them as she became aware of the faint sound of footsteps beyond their bickering. After only a moment of listening in, it became clear they were coming from the other direction. Olivia quickly ushered them behind the nearest Satinalia tree — so egregiously oversized that the three of them could shield behind it with ease — as Arl Teagan’s voice became apparent round the corner.

“Alistair, just hear me out—”

“I’ve had enough of hearing you out for tonight, Uncle,” Alistair said, annoyance obvious beneath the humour he tried to cover himself with. “I suggest you bring this up with me again when I’m blind drunk, or after I’ve suffered a massive head injury.”

“Then I will leave them on your desk, Alistair. Perhaps you can read them when you are being less petulant.”

Olivia peeked out from behind the tree to see Arl Teagan ascending the stairs opposite, a wad of papers clutched in his hand. “We need those documents,” she murmured to Shepard.

“Yeah, and a distraction,” she replied. “Come on. I have an idea.”

Olivia followed Shepard as they began to ascend the stairs after the arl, listening carefully for any sounds of footsteps returning their way. Thankfully, the King’s corridor was empty when they arrived, the usual retinue of guards having finished for the evening. He really needed to employ more fastidious staff.

“Right,” Shepard said, coming to a standstill outside the door to Alistair’s bedchambers. “Ready to create that distraction?”

Olivia nodded, and with a mischievous glint in her eye Shepard reached out, quickly hammering on Alistair’s door. Before Olivia had a chance to protest or scold her, she had grabbed Cullen by the arm and pulled him towards the door of the King’s office, opening it and slipping inside at the exact same moment as the bedroom door swung open.

“Teagan, I thought I told you—”

Alistair stopped abruptly as his gaze settled on Olivia, and her eyes widened as she took in his appearance. “Oh,” he said, that pink blush she’d seen on his cheeks now spreading across his chest — his broad, bare, hopelessly enticing chest. “Hello.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I took off my shirt.” 

_That_ , for some reason, was the first thing he could think to say, because as well as being king of a country he was also evidently a king of charisma. Vee said nothing, simply staring at him as if he’d sprouted a second head, and he continued in a desperate bid to fill the silence. “You know. Because it was drenched with wine.”

“I — uh — I came to apologise about that,” Vee said, pointedly looking anywhere but at his chest.

“Oh— no! I wasn’t— there’s no need to apologise. Completely unscathed, as you can see,” he said, because obviously drawing more attention to his naked chest was what the situation called for. “Would you like to come in?” he blurted out next, apparently unable to stop himself from saying any stray thought which crossed his mind. “I promise I’ll put a shirt on.”

It seemed as though Vee was going to object, and somehow the thought of scaring her away was worse than having thoroughly embarrassed himself. To his surprise, she nodded, and his heart soared as she quickly glanced up and down the corridor before stepping into his room. 

“I _am_ sorry,” she said, averting her eyes as he quickly grabbed his nightshirt and pulled it over his head. “I can’t believe I—”

“It’s fine,” he reassured her. “Truly. It livened up the evening if nothing else. Is your hand alright?”

“Oh— yes, thank you.” She grasped her sore hand with the other, gingerly, almost as if it still pained her. Before he had a chance to offer to look at it again, she continued. “I know it’s none of my business, but I… I overheard your discussion with the Arl. I was wondering if you were alright. The topic at hand did not seem particularly pleasant.”

“Ah. That.” Why she of all people had had to bear witness to that exact conversation, he would never know. It was almost as if the Maker had cursed him. He sighed, rubbing his jaw with one hand. “It’s nothing, really.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing.” She was apparently unwilling to let the matter drop; she continued to stare at him, a strangely level stare that seemed to look into his very soul, whether he willed it or not.

It was impossible not to answer her when she looked at him like that. “Have you ever been told you had to do something because it was your duty, and you couldn’t think of anything worse?”

“Maker, yes,” she said, the answer coming with such surety that it surprised him.

“Well, it’s something like that.” He paused, unwilling to continue the conversation — especially not with her, and especially not when she was one of the primary reasons for his suffering. She didn’t seem to pick up on his reluctance — or, if she did, she didn’t seem to care. 

“What are you planning to do about it?”

He huffed. “If I knew, I would tell you. They keep asking me to make all these decisions and ‘do the right thing.’ It’s infuriating.” 

“It’s almost like you’re the King or something.” The corner of her mouth quirked up in a slight smile, and he grinned in return.

“I know, right? It’s weird.”

Her expression sobered, and her eyes raked across his face, searching for something — but he wasn’t quite sure what. “So… what is ‘the right thing’?”

“What is it always — sacrificing the one for the many. It’s what ended the Blight, so I suppose it’s meant to be what’ll end the political stalemate we’re facing now.” He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s what this country is built on; I learned as much many years ago.”

“You say ‘sacrifice’ as if it’s a dirty word.”

He couldn’t help himself: the words on his mind came tumbling out of his mouth as if by themselves. “Do you think I asked for this? Or the Wardens, for what happened at Ostagar? Do you think the Hero of Ferelden asked for the fate that befell her?” 

She looked taken aback by his tirade, and silence fell between them for a moment. When she finally answered her tone was soft, yet full of conviction. “We aren’t always given what we ask for. Sometimes, all we can do is make a choice — even if it isn’t the one we want to make.”

“Even if it’s a choice that all but guarantees we suffer ourselves?”

“If it stops others from suffering? Yes, of course.” The softness fell away from her tone until it was pure steel. “We — _you_ have a duty to the people of this realm, whether you asked for it or not. It is not their fault that you didn’t wish to take up that burden.”

He sighed. She was right — of course she was right. He’d known as much going in, accepting the crown when it was all but thrown at his head. Everything had been a blur back then, a haze of uncertainty and loss — but, even so, he’d known. It was always going to come to this.

It had just been easier to accept that fate before _she’d_ come along and had proved he’d been wrong in thinking he’d never feel like this again.

But she was right — none of that mattered.

“Just once, it would be nice if people told me what I wanted to hear instead of what I needed to.” He laughed drily. “But you’re right — I have a duty, and I can’t turn away from it, no matter how great the temptation. I suppose I just need to be reminded of that sometimes.” 

She smiled, and the knowledge that he’d gained her approval was almost enough to take away the sting of its cost.

\---

Of all the situations Shepard had dragged Cullen into, this was quite possibly the worst. As if all the times he’d been forced to cover for her flagrant rule-breaking in the Circle weren’t bad enough, now she’d actually manhandled him into committing treason — and, judging by the way she was currently rifling through the papers on the King’s desk, he feared that wasn’t the only law he’d be breaking that night. 

“Fuck, it’s locked,” Shepard said, creating a racket as she pulled at the desk drawers.

“He will hear you—”

“Cole?” Shepard ignored him as she hissed to the empty room. “Cole!”

“Stop that, he’s not—”

“Yes, I am.”

Cullen almost jumped out of his skin at the voice which sounded behind him, and he swivelled on the spot to find the very person — spirit — she’d been calling for. “Wha— where did you—”

“I’ve been here all this time,” Cole smiled at him, but the expression flickered at Cullen’s persistent bewilderment. “I sat next to you at dinner?”

“He did, Cullen,” Shepard told him. “Can you give me a hand here?”

Cole dutifully approached the desk, pulling a collection of lockpicks from his belt and setting to work at the desk drawer whilst Shepard began to inspect the rest of the room. He was half-tempted to leave her to it; it wasn’t like she needed him there, and she wouldn’t listen to a word he said even if she did need his help. Still, despite his reservations, he just couldn’t bring himself to go.

“I thought he wasn’t going to do that anymore,” he grumbled instead, folding his arms across his chest.

“Do what?” Shepard asked.

“ _That_ ,” he said with an emphatic wave of his hand. “The appearing from thin air.”

“It’s not his fault you’re oblivious.” She paused, her fingers tracing the spine of a gold-embellished book, and he could tell what she was thinking before she even spoke. “Do you think the King’ll notice if—”

“ _No_.”

“No, he won’t notice. Got it.”

She moved to pluck the book from the shelf but Cullen was quicker, rushing to her side and clamping his hand over hers so the book remained rooted in place. “Void take you, Shepard; I’ve allowed you to trespass and to continue with this farcical identity swap, but I draw the line at you robbing the man.”

“It’s really cute that you think you’ve allowed any of this.”

It was truly infuriating that, even in the midst of mayhem, all it took was her smile and for her to call him _cute_ to fluster him, and all at once that ridiculous urge to kiss her he’d had in the forest hit him again. He was acutely aware of his hand over hers and the scant space between them. At this distance, he could count the freckles across the bridge of her nose — and he didn’t know why this was happening to him because she was _Shepard_ and he’d been so careful all along not to—

“It’s open.”

He jumped for a second time at the sound of Cole’s voice, moving away from Shepard before he could make a fool of himself. He approached the spirit, taking the wad of papers from his hands and scanning over them.

“What is it?”

“It looks like some sort of contract,” Cullen said, skimming over verbose talk of _unity_ and _arrangement_ before the words _nuptials_ jumped out to hit him in the chest like a sledgehammer. “ _Maker_ ,” he breathed. “This— they can’t—”

“What?” Shepard asked, and he wordlessly pointed to the line. “Oh, fuck,” she muttered. “They’re trying to arrange a marriage to Liv.”

“No, Shepard,” he said. “They are trying to arrange a marriage to the Inquisitor.”

For once in her life Shepard seemed at a loss for words, her eyes wide and fixed on Cullen. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she repeated.

She looked as if she was about to say something else, but was stopped by the distinct sound of a key turning, followed by the muffled voice of the Inquisitor undoubtedly trying to protect them from discovery. They exchanged a brief look of fear before Cullen rushed towards the opposite door. “Quick,” he said. “We have to—”

“No,” Cole said as he reached for the door handle. “People are coming from there, too. I can hear them.”

He looked back at Shepard, desperate for one of her outlandish plans to save them and was frustrated beyond belief that she was using the time to rifle through the King’s bookshelves. “I _told_ you you can’t—”

“I’m obviously looking for a secret passage!” she hissed back at him.

“We’re not in one of Varric’s books, Shepard!”

“Well I don’t have any other bright ideas, aside from you taking your shirt off and pretending we’re hooking up!”

He didn’t know why she insisted on saying such things — perhaps she wanted to get her fill of teasing him before they were both hanged for treason. “Wh— why would we be — i-in the King’s study?!”

“Thrill of being caught, I don’t know — that’s why it’s Plan B!” She pulled another book back, and much to Cullen’s surprise and annoyance, her ridiculous plan actually worked. With a _click_ the bookcase swung forwards, and Shepard shot him a broad grin before darting inside the hidden passageway. He hesitated for only a moment before following her, pulling the secret door shut behind him and plunging them both into darkness. The darkness only lasted a moment, however, for in the next Shepard’s biotics flickered to life. She held her glowing hands in front of her to illuminate a passageway strewn with cobwebs and only just wide enough for them to walk single file.

“Awesome,” Shepard whispered as she stepped forwards. 

He could hear the muffled voices of the King and the Inquisitor behind them, and so he didn’t reply, following her with his head ducked to avoid scraping it against the corridor’s low ceiling. 

“I love old castles,” Shepard, incapable of keeping quiet for more than two minutes, whispered again. “You know, secret passages had really gone out of fashion by the 22nd century. I never knew what I was missing.”

“It does make me fear for Skyhold’s security.”

“Nah, I’ve checked our libraries. We’re disappointingly safe.”

He frowned at the back of her head. “Have you been through every single book in our library?”

“I was bored,” she shrugged. “Cole helped.”

“Yes, well, Cole is— wait,” Cullen said, glancing over his shoulder and realising with a sinking feeling that the spirit had not followed them. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, he’ll get himself out of trouble. He always does.”

They were silent for a while as they descended through the weaving passageway with no clear end to it in sight. Cullen was sure they were underground by this point, but he was only half paying attention to where they were going; he was more preoccupied by the documents they’d discovered in the King’s office. “We need to leave tomorrow,” he said when he could no longer keep the gnawing unease in his gut contained.

“You know we can’t do that.”

“We have to,” he said. “If he presents this— this _treaty_ to the Inquisition—”

“It won’t happen. The King clearly doesn’t want it to, judging by how he was arguing with his uncles.”

“He might not have much choice in the matter,” Cullen persisted, and Shepard sighed in response but said nothing else. “How are you so calm about this?”

“Because it does hinge on someone wanting to marry me, and that seems kinda unlikely.”

He didn’t know if she was being flippant or if she truly believed what she said, but it still made his heart clench in a way he couldn’t quite understand — or perhaps didn’t want to. “It is still not a risk I am willing to take,” he told her. 

“Well, it isn’t really _your_ risk to take,” she replied, her voice harder now, and her dismissal of him made Cullen’s worry shift to irritation.

“Of course it is,” he snapped, his voice growing louder in anger. “Getting through just one week without the Inquisition being ruined seems impossible; how do you propose to keep up this act for the next forty years?”

“Oh, and here I thought you were worried about _me_. Good to know it’s only the Inquisition you care about.”

“You know for a fact that it isn’t— a-and I thought you _did_ care about the Inquisition, so why you insist on jeopardising it at every turn is beyond me!”

“And why you insist on blaming me for everything is beyond _me_!” she shot back, stopping dead in her tracks and spinning around to face him, the anger in her face illuminated by her flaring biotics. “Everything that’s gone wrong this week is because of Liv, but of course she’s incapable of doing any wrong in your eyes—”

“If you are implying that I— that she— then you have even less idea what you’re talking about than usual!”

“I’m implying that your head is so far up your ass that you—”

Cullen was so focused on their argument that he almost jumped out of his skin when the distinct noise of someone clearing their throat sounded behind Shepard. She swivelled as Cullen’s attention snapped to the man who had discovered them — a man wearing armor emblazoned with an insignia of a bird, and whose bow was aimed directly at Shepard’s chest.

“You have thirty seconds to explain how you found us before we kill you both.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I wouldn’t point that at me,” Shepard scowled at the man who’d discovered them. “I’m already really annoyed.”

“And I wouldn’t threaten me, _Inquisition_ ,” the man spat back. “We were having a nice, peaceful dinner before your argument interrupted us. We’re grumpy when we’re hungry.”

“And who’s ‘we’?”

“Shepard, don’t—” Cullen began, but before he could finish his sentence the hooded man barked out a laugh.

“Do you not recognise the Crows when you see them?”

“Not really,” she shrugged, glancing at the unfamiliar armour.

“Isn’t that the redhead from our contract?” piped up one of the other men. “I know we were meant to wait until tomorrow, but as she’s here...”

“Hmm.” The hooded man looked back at his colleague and then turned towards Shepard again, his grin widening in a distinctly unpleasant manner. “Yeah, might as well.”

“Over my dead body,” Cullen growled, before giving her a pointed look and a nod. “Shepard.”

That was all the indication she needed to unleash the biotic energy which had been coiled at her fists, sending out a Shockwave which knocked the first few attackers off their feet and staggered the rest. She followed through with a Charge, sending two more clattering to the ground. She reached for the knives holstered to her boot as her biotics cooled down, turning to throw one to Cullen only to find him already armed with a staff.

“What are you gonna do with that?!” she screeched at him, sinking her knife into the neck of the last man standing before refocusing her attention on those heaving themselves back to their feet. “Are you suddenly a mage?!”

He merely scoffed, cracking the staff over the head of his nearest enemy with a sickening _thud_. It seemed so very _Cullen_ to use a tool of magic as a bludgeon that she couldn’t help but laugh. He grinned back at her as she did — and, for a brief moment, his smile was far more important than anything else on the battlefield.

“Shepard, behind you!”

She turned just in time to see two more men descending from the trapdoor, and she Charged again, knocking them down before they even had a chance to get their footing in the passageway. She scrambled up through the trapdoor, quickly surveying the room she’d emerged in. It was little more than a warehouse, nothing in it save for some boxes and a few tables of potions and paperwork, but more important at present were three more attackers bearing down on her. She dodged out of the way of a bolt of lightning they sent at her but the following bolt connected with her flank. Electricity seared under her skin as the shock threw her from her feet, sending her crashing into a desk with a pained cry. 

The mage who had managed to knock her from her feet bore down on her as she struggled to regain her footing. He grabbed her by the neck and wrenched her from the floor — a move clearly intended as a display of power, but all it did was give her the advantage she needed. He opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly threatening but she didn’t let him get the chance, swinging out with her fist and striking him in the jaw. With a surprised yelp, he dropped her. Taking a leaf out of Cullen’s book, she pulled his staff from his grasp before crashing it down on his skull.

As he fell to the floor she looked across the room towards Cullen, who had caught up with her and had brought down their remaining enemies. “Are you hurt?” he asked, pushing a few stray curls back from his brow as he looked at her with concern.

“Nah,” she said, ignoring the dull ache in both her arm and side as she turned away from him, because the last time he’d looked at her like _that_ she’d almost done something very stupid. She instead began to inspect their surroundings, plucking a few letters from a desk strewn with paperwork and sinister-looking tools. “Who are the Crows?” she asked.

“Assassins from Antiva,” Cullen said. “We need to tell the King about this place.”

“And what are we gonna say? Hey, Alistair, funny story — we were sneaking around your study and it turns out it has a secret passage to an evil lair!” She shook her head, shoving a wad of documents into her jacket pocket. “We’ll ask Liv what she thinks, but I say we just get the Inquisition to cave in the passageway on the quiet. Save the King from his own stupidity at leaving a tunnel out of his palace unguarded.”

“I doubt he even knows about it,” Cullen told her. “I’d wager it was put in as an escape route when the palace was first built. These things often get forgotten with time.”

“Seems like a pretty important thing to forget. Where do you even think we are?”

Cullen considered her question before crossing over to the warehouse’s only door and peering outside into the darkness. “We’re at the docks,” he said after a moment. “It shouldn’t take us too long to get back to the palace from here. But we should go quickly — they’ll be wondering where we went.”

“What if there’s more? If they arrive and see all these bodies…”

“I know,” he said, looking grimly at the macabre display on the floor. “But there is little we can do for that now. Let us take what we can, and tomorrow we shall come up with a plan before we leave.”

“Cullen, I don’t think we can just—”

“I do not wish to argue about this anymore, Shepard,” Cullen said sharply. “Please allow me five minutes not to worry about your impending engagement whilst I instead worry about your impending assassination.”

He refused to meet her eye as he set about gathering up the remaining documents, scowling to himself as he did so. “You really don’t need to worry about me,” she said softly when the silence became too much to bear.

He finally looked up at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read, but one which still made her stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. “I…” he began, then shook his head as he frowned back at the paperwork in his hands. “I am sorry for suggesting you do not care about the Inquisition. I know that isn’t true.”

He folded the papers in half before sweeping from the room, and Shepard quickly followed, and though she tried to make smalltalk he didn’t say anything further as they made their way back to the palace. When they went to bed he faced away from her, still silent as he blew out the candle on his bedside table, and though she wanted desperately to fix things she just couldn’t figure out what she’d done wrong.

\---

Olivia huffed again and turned over, settling down into the lumpy and scratchy pillow in a position only marginally less uncomfortable than the last. The recent decreasing frequency of their expeditions had begun to spoil her, and she was growing far too used to the high-quality linens and down pillows of the Inquisitor’s quarters. How she’d ever managed to sleep on the road, let alone in the Circle, was beyond her.

She should have just continued to sneak into the guest quarters saved for her like Josephine had suggested. At least she would have been well rested for the manual labour she suddenly found herself doing on the daily — though, if she were entirely honest, the uncomfortable bed in the servant’s quarters was not what was keeping her awake tonight.

It was Alistair.

It was getting to the point where her feelings could no longer be written off as merely a crush. He was handsome, to be sure, and tall and charming and exceedingly well-built — but there was more to it than that. If it hadn’t been obvious before, it certainly was after tonight. Nobody could hear him talk about his experiences during the Blight and find him anything other than a good man. And to have been through all that he had, to come out of that still so willing to let others, even a random serving girl, into his private thoughts and feelings… 

What’s more, he met the world with a smile — not a frown. Olivia could not have done the same, and she couldn’t fathom the strength of character required for such a feat. 

Maker, she had it bad. She turned onto her other side again, groaning as the coarse linen scratched her cheek uncomfortably. 

She supposed he could have sprung for some better quality linens for his servants. At least he wasn’t perfect, then; that was some small consolation, at least.

Some time in the middle of her tossing and turning, she must have fallen asleep, for she awoke the following morning to find a note in Cullen’s hand shoved under her door. She could tell by the rushed letters and the terse tone that whatever news he had wasn’t good. She dressed hastily but proceeded through the castle with caution, wary of being seen entering the meeting room which had been set aside for the Inquisition. She was the last to arrive, and the others appeared to have been there for some time, Cullen in a heated debate with Leliana as Shepard massaged her temples and Josephine looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“What’s happened?”

The group looked across their makeshift War Table to Olivia, their expressions ranging between aggravation and worry. “The Commanders unearthed some worrying developments during your latest excursion,” Leliana told her, and Olivia couldn’t miss the disapproval in her voice. 

“Well?” Olivia asked, her gaze flicking between Cullen and Shepard, taking in that they both looked just as sleep-deprived as she was. Shepard was paler than usual, and the dark circles under Cullen’s eyes were more pronounced than they had been for months. “We stumbled onto some sort of conspiracy,” Shepard began. “The Crows are—”

“That is not the most pressing issue,” Cullen cut her off, his tone uncustomarily sharp. She expected Shepard to argue with him; instead, she simply grit her teeth in response and nodded for him to keep speaking. “Teagan and Eamon are orchestrating a political marriage between the Inquisitor and the King. We need to leave at once.”

It was utterly absurd that her heart gave a small flip in response to his words, because she’d only just met Alistair, and regardless of what they’d shared last night she was hardly thinking of _marriage_. Still, she couldn’t suppress the brief flash of a future which disappeared as quickly as it came on realising— 

“But they think Shepard is the Inquisitor.”

Olivia’s heart sank once more as Shepard nodded. “But it’s fine,” she reassured her. “I can be even more obnoxious than usual; he’ll never ask.”

“No,” Olivia said, her conversation with Alistair now jarring in its clarity — and the advice she’d given the last thing she would have suggested if she’d _known_. “I spoke to Alistair last night. He kept saying some cryptic things about duty. I had thought he meant…” she trailed off as a sinking feeling spread through her gut. “I encouraged him to do whatever it took to keep the peace.”

“We have to leave,” Cullen repeated.

“We cannot do that without arousing suspicion — and offending the entire Fereldan court,” Josephine said. “We can lay the groundwork today and leave first thing in the morning. We can ensure Shepard’s schedule means she avoids the King until then.”

“The ball, Josie,” Leliana reminded her. “We’ll still have to attend tonight.”

“Like I said — obnoxious,” Shepard told them. “It’s really second nature—”

“This is not a joke, Shepard!”

Cullen’s words were concluded by the resounding _slam_ of his fist against the desk, though he immediately seemed to regret his outburst, wincing as he withdrew his hand. Surely at least one of the pair had to realise why he was reacting like this, but Shepard’s expression was unreadable as she regarded him.

“No,” Shepard said, her voice straining with forced calm. “What’s a _joke_ is that you’re all going on about this when there’s a very real assassination plot underway. Liv, you need to look at these,” she thrust a handful of papers at her. “Someone has put out a contract on you — _me_ — with the Antivan Crows.”

Olivia’s heart hammered as she scanned the documents and found Shepard’s words to be correct. “Do we know what their plan is?”

“No. But they’re organised enough to have established a passageway into the castle; we intercepted their group last night, but that’s not to say there aren’t more where that came from.”

“Even so,” Olivia said, trying to sound firm. “Josephine is right — we cannot just leave. The fate of the Inquisition is at stake. And Shepard can just say no if he asks.” She hated the way her heart clenched in her chest as she said the words.

“Exactly,” Shepard agreed, though she lacked her usual conviction. “It’s not an issue.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Cullen forced through gritted teeth. “Inquisitor, I have men stationed at every entrance to the castle, and more sealing off the passageway we discovered. If you require me, I shall be overseeing their work.”

He turned on his heel, clearly intent on stomping out of the room with as much dramatic flair as he could muster, but the effect was dampened as he immediately collided with the Satinalia tree which obstructed his route. “Why are these things _everywhere_?!” he snarled, shoving the tree out of his path in a way which was decidedly _not_ in the spirit of the season, before storming from the room and letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Liv, I’m staying in your room tonight. He’s driving me up the wall.”

“It’s fine — I haven’t been using it anyway.”

“You haven’t _what_?” Shepard yelped. “Then why am I sharing a bed with the Grinch who stole fucking Christmas?!”

“I think he is just worried for you, Shepard,” Josephine offered tentatively, but Shepard shook her head.

“I don’t need him to _worry_ about me. I need him to focus on his job.” She pulled her papers back out of Olivia’s hands roughly and glared at them. “Whatever. Let them try it.”

“Then since we are staying,” Josephine added, “should we discuss the arrangements for tonight’s ball?”

“Should it not be cancelled?” Olivia asked. “We could speak with Alistair, tell him—”

“And how do you propose to tell him about the plot without revealing everything else as well?” Josephine asked.

“Fine — but we at least need more protection in place for Shepard, if she absolutely must attend.”

“She must. Anything else will arouse suspicion.”

“I can call in more scouts, have them infiltrate the crowd,” Leliana offered. “No one will be able to make a move for Shepard without our eyes on them.”

“What do you think, Shepard?” Olivia asked.

“I’m always up for a party,” she smiled, though it flickered on seeing something in Olivia’s face. “Leliana’s right, Liv. It’ll be fine.”

After one final beat of indecision Olivia nodded, and Shepard’s smile renewed. “Then it’s sorted,” Shepard said. “I’ll spend some time away from the castle today, unless—”

“Shepard, you have a contract on your life.”

“Oh,” she said, as if only just remembering that salient point. “Right. I’ll just… sit in Liv’s quarters, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll catch up with you all later.”

It wasn’t until the door shut behind her that Josephine spoke once more, her words slow and deliberate. “I cannot say it in front of either of them, but such a marriage would be the best outcome for the Inquisition.”

Olivia’s eyes snapped towards Josephine, barely able to believe what she was hearing, but both Josephine and Leliana looked deadly serious as they exchanged a look with each other. “She’s not the Inquisitor, Josie,” Olivia said.

“She could be,” Leliana spoke now. “It would require some careful manoeuvring in the Game, but nothing beyond our expertise.”

“She would need to shield herself from the Court for several years, allow the memory of you to fade,” Josephine said. “But I doubt she would say no to some extended expeditions.”

“Indeed,” Leliana agreed. “The most difficult part would be in preparation for the Exalted Council, and after that — well. I know what you have been considering.” Olivia ducked her head, oddly ashamed of what Leliana of course had seen, for it felt like surrender to want to conclude what they’d started. “I think she would agree to it, if you asked. Shepard knows duty better than most. ” 

The option Leliana presented her with was what she’d desperately yearned for, both in her youth and on the path that came after: freedom. Beyond the Circle, beyond the Inquisition, she could finally just be her; her path could diverge to wherever she wanted, free from the chains of a power she’d never sought. It seemed naive to even consider it, for she was no longer the young girl who read romance novels by candlelight. Without the Inquisition, she didn’t know what she was left with — but that hope for something more seemed impossible to extinguish now started.

“And what of Cullen?” Olivia couldn’t help but ask.

“If I thought…” Josephine began, but trailed off with a sigh. “Cullen has had years to make sense of what he feels for Shepard. I am not sure he ever will.”

“Consider it, Olivia,” Leliana urged her. “Joining with Ferelden would give us the resources and security we need to ensure our success for years to come. It is the best course of action.”

She did consider it for a shamefully long moment, imagining once more that elusive road just beyond her — but then her thoughts returned to Shepard, and to Cullen, and the responsibility she’d be throwing away. Of course, once she’d gone down that route, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from turning to Alistair; his life would be impacted by this deception, too. He didn’t deserve that.

“No,” she said firmly. “I couldn’t.”

“Of course,” Leliana said, her expression impassive once more, though disappointment was clear on Josephine’s face. “Then we shall make plans to leave in the morning.”

That wasn’t what she wanted either, but perhaps it was for the best. She didn’t need the constant danger of their deception, or the insistent beat of her heart for a man out of her reach; back at Skyhold they could to return to normalcy and refocus on the duty which was all that mattered. She had said as much to Alistair last night.

In time, his kind eyes could become a distant memory, just as those tales from her youth now were.


	9. Chapter 9

Alistair poked at his porridge with his spoon.

“Something the matter with your breakfast, Your Majesty?” 

He grunted something vaguely like “no” at the wizened server without so much as looking up, then immediately felt ashamed. It wasn’t _his_ fault that he’d been expecting to have Vee serve him his breakfast, and had instead been met by the face he’d been looking at every morning for the past three years.

“No, Andrew, everything’s fine. I’m just not hungry today.”

“Perhaps something different? Fruit, maybe?”

Alistair grimaced, and Andrew chuckled quietly.

“Perhaps not. I shall leave you to it, then, Your Majesty.”

Alistair nodded the man out of the room, then turned back to his plate, pleased to be left alone — for once. It wasn’t common that he had all too many thoughts to occupy his mind, but now he found himself in precisely that situation.

First and foremost: he was going to propose marriage today.

In his youth, the thought of a marriage proposal had excited him, even given him those butterflies in his stomach he’d always heard so much about. Unfortunately, the object of his affections had come and gone and left him devoid of both excitement and butterflies.

And now that he had both, it no longer mattered, because the proposal he was meant to be spending the morning ‘planning’ would be directed at someone entirely different.

He stabbed his spoon into the porridge with more force than was strictly necessary. 

Today was shaping up to be the worst day he’d had in quite some time.

\---

Shepard didn’t like being alone with her thoughts.

It suited her best to be surrounded by noise, to push back against the thoughts and memories which haunted her in the quiet with the constant buzz of action. It had always been that way. Her years with the Inquisition may have tempered her somewhat, her new friends and mission dulling yet never erasing the past — but that urge to strike out against silence remained, and it flared now when faced with a crisis and an endless, empty room.

All things considered, the current source of her angst was most decidedly Cullen, and she was quite happy to direct the frustration from her internal turmoil onto him. He’d barely even looked at her all day, and had only spoken with her to bicker over strategy. He seemed to actually _want_ to be angry at her, and she would have been furious if his attitude hadn’t hurt her quite so much.

He was acting like a jealous lover, and it was ridiculous. It wasn’t like _he_ had any intention of marrying her.

At length, Leliana came to her quarters, only to leave her at the mercy of a masochistic stylist in preparation for the ball. The man took an hour to wrangle her hair into a painfully tight braid, then a further half hour to pull the lacing of her corset so tight she could barely breathe, before throwing a bucketload of makeup on her face, shoving her into a crimson dress and sending her on her way. As she navigated the stairs to the ballroom in a pair of dangerously high heels, she suspected that pulling her corset tight enough to stop her talking was probably Leliana’s main aim.

She was the last of the Inquisition’s party to arrive, and with a resigned sigh she approached the advisers. Cullen was in his usual Inquisition regalia — she was convinced the man only had two outfits — but both Josephine and Leliana had also opted for dresses, Josephine’s forest-green with ruffles to make Varric’s nickname proud, whereas Leliana’s was sleeker and deep purple.

“Remind me why there’s so many balls this week?” Shepard asked as she approached them, pulling at her corset’s boning to stop it digging into her armpit.

“It is an Antivan tradition,” Josephine told her, batting her hand away from her dress. “Though the Orlesians have adopted it in recent years.”

“I’m beginning to think all this gaudiness is just a really covert method of invasion.”

Cullen let out a snort of derision, and she looked to him in surprise, glad to see he wasn’t frowning quite as hard as when she’d seen him last. “Look on the bright side: we’ll be gone before the third ball.”

“I’m glad to see you’re back to your usual cheery optimism.”

“Yes, well — I apologise for earlier,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly. “I think we can all agree we’re under a lot of stress today.”

She figured it was best to graciously accept his sub-par apology rather than argue with him further, and so she turned her attention to the ballroom. Past the throng of nobles in ornate dresswear she could see the King in deep discussion with his uncles. Her gaze only landed on them for a moment before being distracted by Liv, approaching them purposefully with a tray of champagne flutes. 

“Inquisitor,” Liv bowed her head as she reached them, offering her a glass. 

“Random servant who I have no prior knowledge of,” Shepard returned as she accepted the drink from her. “Thanks.”

“Alistair’s on the way over,” she murmured. “I think his mind’s made up.”

“Wha— _already_?” Cullen spluttered, slightly too loudly, and with a sharp glare from Leliana he lowered his voice. “We need to do something.”

“Quick, tip the tray of drinks over Cullen—”

“What good will _that_ do?!”

“Calm down, the both of you,” Leliana cut across them, her voice quiet but deadly. “Perhaps you should offer His Majesty a drink.”

Liv nodded before turning from them, striding purposefully in the direction of the King — though he was already marching over, his shoulders drawn back as though willing self-assurance into his step. He swept straight past Liv before coming to stand in front of Shepard. 

“Inquisitor,” he said with an abrupt tilt of his head. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time after the ball?”

Shepard’s mind raced to come up with a rapid escape plan, but Cullen beat her to it, his voice polite but firm as he addressed the King. “I have a number of field reports to discuss with the Inquisitor this evening, Your Majesty. It may take several hours.”

“Then perhaps now?” Alistair persisted. “I—”

“I also have something to discuss with her now,” he said abruptly, and it was clear by his wide-eyed expression he had absolutely no idea where he was going with this. “I— would you like to dance, Inquisitor?”

Somehow, Cullen asking her to dance seemed more ludicrous than the King asking to marry her; her stomach gave an absurd little flip in response to the question, which she was sure was due to the peril of the situation and not because she actually _wanted_ to dance with him. “I— sure,” she agreed. “But I might skewer you with my heels.”

“I shall take the risk.”

He offered his hand to her, and she accepted without hesitation, keen to escape both Alistair and the baffled look on Josephine’s face. She allowed Cullen to lead her to the dancefloor, and as the music swelled she did her best to focus on her footwork and not Cullen’s hand on her waist. “You do remember I can’t dance for shit?” she said, her mind travelling back to the last time they’d danced together.

They’d been forced into lessons by Josephine, practising in preparation for Halamshiral. Cullen and Liv had just separated, and he’d started each session quiet and sad. But he’d changed, by inches, laughing with her over Orlesian customs and at her for her two left feet, and by the time they reached the palace he’d begun to smile at people other than her again.

Afterwards, she’d missed those lessons, though she could never quite pinpoint why.

“Vividly,” he said, wincing as she accidentally trod on his foot during a turn. “But I figure if you trip, break your neck and die it would thwart the proposal.”

She chanced a look up at him and found that he was smiling, soft and slightly tentative as he met her gaze, and suddenly it wasn’t all that hard to imagine why she’d enjoyed those lessons together. “Glad to see you’ve got a plan, Commander.”

“Always, Commander.”

“Inquisitor,” she corrected, before returning her gaze to his shoulder.

They danced in silence awhile, Shepard for once content to let him lead, and she knew being held in those arms was dangerous but she wasn’t ready to let go. “He’ll still want to talk to you afterwards,” Cullen eventually murmured into her ear. “We need to leave now.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I— I just can’t be alone with him. If I’m not alone with him, he can’t ask me.” 

“I am not sure that will stop him.”

“It’s worth a try,” she said. “You’ll have to come with.”

“No, Shepard.”

She rolled her eyes, both at his stubbornness and his inability to maintain the ruse of _Inquisitor_. “Do you know any words other than ‘no’ and ‘Shepard’?”

“I know ‘Mollie’.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she scolded, steadfastly ignoring the heat spreading across her cheeks, which was certainly from indignation and not because she _liked_ him calling her that. “All we need to do is get through tonight without him having an opportunity to ask me anything. Because if he asks, I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know what you’ll say?!” he demanded, his tone loud enough to draw the stares of nearby nobles, and she tried in vain to shush him. “You’ll have to say no! I know that isn’t in _your_ vocabulary, but—”

“It’s not that easy!” she hissed back. “He’s the fucking King! And…”

“And _what_?”

She groaned, knowing this conversation was going nowhere good, but feeling compelled to tell him the thought that whispered at the back of her mind all the same. “And it would help the Inquisition.”

She felt Cullen’s posture stiffen, and she couldn’t look at him because if she did she’d be finished. “Please tell me this is another one of your jokes.”

“You know it would help. And it wouldn’t be _that_ hard to pretend—”

“I am not having this conversation with you,” he cut her off, but after a pause he continued in spite of himself. “You cannot be seriously considering this.”

“Not _seriously_ considering, but… pondering.” 

“You— I just — _Maker take me_ ,” he said, but she was no longer focused on him. A flash of steel drew her attention to the balcony high above them, vanishing before she could fix on it, and a pit of dread began to form in her stomach as she desperately scanned the crowd for the source. “Of all the ill-considered, foolhardy—”

“Cullen—”

“No, I refuse to even hear—”

And then she spotted it; the tip of an arrow nocked in a bow, its wielder shielded from the nearby nobles by the branches of a Satinalia tree.

Those _fucking_ trees.

“Cullen!”

She pushed him aside as the assassin released their arrow, summoning her biotics to shield her — but protecting Cullen had cost her precious seconds, and a strike to the chest threw her off her heels and sent her clattering to the ground. She groaned from the floor, vaguely aware of the screams around her but more focused on the arrow lodged somewhere in her sternum, and the blood that was slowly staining her dress a darker shade of red.

“Well,” she forced out through the pain. “ _Fuck_.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Son of a _fucking_ bitch!”

_That_ definitely wasn’t on Josephine’s list of polite conversation starters, but these were exceptional circumstances, and Shepard was exceptionally annoyed. She pushed herself up to sitting, glaring down furiously at the arrow lodged in her chest — only an inch or so deep, having hit bone rather than her more squishy organs — and she cursed the day she’d ever allowed the Inquisitor to persuade her into this scheme.

Cullen was at her side in an instant, his face pale and his mouth set in a grim line. She appreciated the concern, but he really should have been trying to find the person responsible. “Maker, I— it’s okay,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. “It’s—” he stopped dead as she pulled the arrow from her chest and viciously threw it to one side. “I— hm. You actually are okay.”

“I’m half-full of metal, Cullen,” she growled, ripping the sash from his suit and pressing it to her chest to stem the flow of blood. “Now, find whoever shot me so I can fucking crush them with my robot hands.” He continued to stare at her stupidly, and with a groan she tried to stand up, suspecting that if she wanted anything done she’d have to do it herself. The pain gripped her afresh as she forced herself onto her knees, even the deep breath she took to steady herself piercing her like another arrow. “Just help me up, and—”

“Inquisitor!” Alistair exclaimed, kneeling next to Cullen. “Don’t worry — we’ve called for the healer—”

“I don’t need a healer, I— is anyone even going after that man?!”

“We’re on it, Inquisitor,” Leliana told her, joining them with a wide-eyed Josephine and a man with a selection of bandages and potions she assumed was the healer. He crouched down beside her, placing his hand over Shepard’s as he tried to inspect her wound. 

“Just relax, Your Worship—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she ground out, gritting her teeth as she made to stand again. She placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder and, with great effort, used him as leverage to push herself onto her feet. “See?” she said, knowing her point was undermined by the way she swayed on her heels and by Cullen rising to support her, his hand firmly anchored on her arm.

“You can barely stand,” Leliana pointed out, looking distinctly unimpressed as she folded her arms across her chest.

“It’s these fucking shoes you made me wear!”

Leliana’s eyes flashed in disapproval, but much to her surprise Alistair snorted with laughter — though he stopped immediately as Leliana turned her withering glare on him. “Uh— why don’t we get you out of here?” Alistair suggested.

“I agree,” Cullen said. “You need to rest.”

He shot her a pointed look, and she grabbed hold of the excuse he offered her, because surely the King wouldn’t harass her with a proposal whilst she was recovering from a chest wound. “Yeah. You’re right. I think I might need to lie down in a dark room. In total silence.”

“At least allow me to examine you first, Your Worship,” the healer said, and Shepard gave a half-hearted shrug, figuring the easiest thing to do was to let him get on with it.

“Fine,” Shepard said, accepting the healer’s arm for support as he began to lead her away. The crowd of nobles whispered urgently to each other as she passed them, their gazes ranging from enthralled to fearful, and she supposed she’d at least provided them with some entertainment for the evening. “And let me know if you catch that man!” she called over her shoulder, ignoring the way Leliana rolled her eyes.

The healer worked quickly and gently, stitching Shepard’s wound closed with practised hands and supplying her with a tonic to help with the pain. She thanked him as he left her alone in the Inquisitor’s quarters, the sharp stab in her chest eased to a dull ache. She almost felt able to return to the ball and the search for her attacker, but she resisted, knowing it was better to avoid the King as best she could for now. 

Thoroughly exhausted, she sank down onto Liv’s bed without even bothering to change out of her bloodstained dress, soon on the edge of sleep but abruptly brought back to reality by a knock on the door. Assuming either Leliana or Cullen had come to update her, she hauled herself out of bed with a groan, the ache in her chest flaring from only that simple movement.

“We better have—” she began as she wrenched open the door, but stopped abruptly on seeing it was not one of the Inquisition but the King who stood there. “You aren’t Leliana.”

“What gave me away?” he asked with an easy smile. “I came to let you know my guards have apprehended your assailant.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“He’s not saying anything.”

“Oh,” she repeated, unsurprised but still disappointed. “Well, Leliana should be able to get something out of him.”

“Hopefully.” 

He said nothing further, hovering in the doorway as though hoping to be invited in, and he obviously wanted to say something more but couldn’t seem to settle on how. She needed to get rid of him before he figured it out.

“Well, I should get some rest. Goodnight.”

She began to close the door, but that seemed to spur him into action, his hand reaching out to brace against the frame. “Inquisitor, I—” he began, then cut himself off with a shake of his head. “There was actually a matter I wished to discuss with you.”

She did her very best to only groan inwardly. “Look, Al — can I call you Al?”

“Do you have to?”

“Al, I’m really tired. Can we discuss whatever this is tomorrow?”

“It won’t take long.”

There was clearly no discouraging him, and so — this time with an outward groan — she held the door open for him. He hesitated as it closed behind him, his gaze flitting between the bay window, the bed and the dressing table. “May I…?” he asked, indicating vaguely towards the room.

“You do own the place.”

“Right. Yes.” Still he hesitated, and it was the first time since they’d arrived that he seemed like a real person; awkward and unsure of himself and distinctly un-kingly, Shepard felt herself softening towards him against her better judgment. 

After what seemed like an age he sat down on the window seat, his body angled slightly away from her.

“What did you want to discuss?” Shepard asked him.

“Er— don’t you want to sit down?”

She absolutely didn’t; she actually wanted to jump out of the window to escape the conversation which was about to unfold, but he’d blocked off that route. Instead, she pulled over the chair from the dressing table, sitting down opposite him and placing her hands on her knees. “Alright. What is it?”

She hoped by being forthright she’d either scare him away or force him to hurry up and get the thing over with, but instead he fiddled with the cuff of his jacket for a frustrating length of time before finally saying anything. “How are you feeling?”

She just about resisted rolling her eyes at his return to smalltalk. “Great. You know, except for the gaping hole in my chest.”

“Right,” he said, a small smile working its way onto his lips. “Stupid question, I guess.”

“Kinda,” she agreed, but she couldn’t help but return his smile. “But thanks for the concern.”

His smile widened a fraction, and he seemed to relax slightly — which, she realised, was probably a bad thing. “I have to say, you don’t seem particularly surprised by this attack.”

She shrugged. “It’s a dull day if someone doesn’t make an attempt on my life.” 

“Which is why you had twice as many agents in position as you’ve had every other night?”

She sighed, knowing he was onto her and also knowing continuing to lie to him was pointless. “We stumbled on some sort of a plot. Someone’s taken out a contract on my life with the Crows.”

“That might have been nice to know about.” His tone was surprisingly light, looking more amused than annoyed as he regarded her. “Though I suppose there’s not much love lost between our factions — it may sometimes be prudent to keep these things close to the chest, particularly when you don’t know who took out the contract.”

“Well, I had assumed it wasn’t you.”

He grinned. “I assumed you assumed it wasn’t me, or we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“And you’re tougher than you look,” he countered, and if that roguish grin was a ploy to win her round it was absolutely not going to work. “I’ve not seen many people walk off an arrow to the heart.”

“Pfft. You think that’s impressive, wait until you hear about the time I got shot into the cold vacuum of space.” 

“You— _what_?”

“Oh. Uh— that’s just a joke,” she said, having forgotten herself for a moment, and it was a bad excuse but more believable than what she’d said. “I may be delirious from blood loss.” He continued to stare at her in confusion, and so she pushed up from her chair, figuring it was as good a time as any to try and end the conversation. “Anyway, I really should get some rest. I’ll see you—”

“My uncles have an idea for an alliance between Ferelden and the Inquisition,” he blurted out, then winced as though he’d said it against his better judgment.

“Giving us all your old forts and saying thank you for clearing out the bandits?”

This time he didn’t smile, continuing to look solemn, and Shepard’s heart hammered a furious beat as she feared what he was about to say. “No. Something more along the ‘til death do us part’ lines.”

“Probably won’t take too long. You’ll want to kill me after about five minutes.”

“Mm. It _is_ annoying that you think you’re funnier than I am.”

“I _am_ funnier than you are.” He looked like he wanted to argue with that, but held himself back, and so she continued. “You do know I’m a mage, right?”

“Yes,” he said. 

“Is that even allowed?”

“Not until now,” he said, sounding almost bitter. “But apparently an exception can be made when said mage is sent by Andraste.”

He turned once more to gaze across the moonlit courtyard, and for a fraction of a moment he seemed impossibly sad — but then his expression shifted, a veil of stoicism falling over whatever pain he held onto. Shepard stood from her chair with a sigh, closing the distance between them as she came to sit beside him. “Alistair,” she said, using his name for the first time, and he seemed to soften a little for it. “This can’t be what you want.”

This time the smile he gave her was wry and resigned, and there was a tiredness in his gaze she hadn’t detected until now. “What I’ve wanted has never really mattered before.”

That much, at least, she could understand; she was all too familiar with the burden of leadership, and the sacrifice which it demanded. She knew all too well that tiredness in his eyes. “No,” she agreed. “It hasn’t for me, either.”

They were silent for a while, the depth of their duty implicit in what they’d said, for in this way at least they were similar. Even if he could never know the extent of it. “It isn’t… this or nothing,” Alistair said at length. “We can still negotiate otherwise. But it would put my country at ease to know the Inquisition are truly allied with them.”

“I don’t think it’ll put Orlais at ease.” He gave a noncommittal shrug, the opinion of the Orlesians clearly far from his mind, and it suddenly struck Shepard why else this might be appealing for Ferelden. “You’re worried they might try and invade again. This way you get the Inquisition on board _and_ a way to scare off the Orlesians.”

“You’re actually quite insightful when you’re not being flippant.”

“We seem to have that in common. I guess that’s one basis for a marriage.” 

He said nothing, merely letting out a small huff of laughter, and as silence settled she allowed the truth she’d tried to resist finally take hold in her mind — one she’d known the moment she’d seen the words on the page. A truth Alistair knew too, or else he never would have asked: that, for everyone except them, such a union was the best decision they could make. 

It should have been ridiculous to even consider what he’d offered; she wasn’t the Inquisitor, and it had been a long time since she’d really been the Commander. But she was still Shepard, even if she was the only one who saw any importance in that name. Sacrifice remained etched onto her skin, the cost of war weaved into her bones — and when she considered all which had been lost before this, this hardly seemed much more weight to bear.

She’d lose that name, of course; lose her friends, lose the home she’d grown to love. But in one final act of _Shepard_ the Inquisition would prosper, and Olivia at least would be free.

“I would have some conditions.”

“Of course,” Alistair said quickly. “I don’t expect you to agree to anything now; you can read over Eamon’s contract and we can discuss it in the morning.” He considered what he’d said for a moment before frowning. “Ah. Although Leliana did mention you might be leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m sure we can put it off.”

“Well, whatever you need to do. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m already ordering you about.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and he rushed to continue. “Not that I would start, it’s just— what I mean to say is this needn’t be a _marriage_ marriage. You could still do your thing, and I could do mine. Neither of us needs to be unhappy.”

He seemed earnest, his eyes wide and beseeching, and it wasn’t lost on her that she was deceiving him — that, in agreeing to this, she’d be tricking a good man into a life with a stranger. Had the Inquisition not meant so much to her, that might have been reason enough to say no. “You need to know that it can’t ever be a — well, a marriage marriage,” she echoed, because as long as neither felt anything the guilt would be easier to bear. “This _would_ purely be political. You can’t think or hope that one day it might be more than that.”

“Right. Obviously,” he nodded, more to himself than to her. “And if you wanted to…” he began, then trailed off, looking somewhat awkward now. “I got the impression you and the Commander were — well. Like I said, neither of us need be unhappy.”

She blinked, once, briefly baffled as to how he’d somehow assumed _that_ before remembering she was supposed to be the Inquisitor. “Oh, right. Because we used to date. Yeah, that’s not— I mean, sure, he’s handsome in that awkward, scowly kind of way, but — nah.” 

Yet her heart felt heavy with those words, too dismissive and simple for how much and how deeply she thought of him, and she felt compelled to continue despite herself. “He is really kind. And funny — surprisingly funny. And he listens to me go on even though I know I annoy him.” And more than that too, more than she could ever possibly say; the man she’d once resented had become the one she cared for the most, and the thought of him no longer being there hurt far more than all the rest.

But none of that mattered now.

She shook her head, trying to clear it from the desperate tangle of thoughts so she could focus on her objective once more. “But yeah, he’s very dour. And he has ridiculous hair. Also he stabbed me once; I’m not into it.”

“He _stabbed you_?”

“Yeah. And that isn’t even innuendo.” She didn’t want to talk about Cullen anymore, because each time she pictured his face it made her heart ache, and so she pushed forward again. “Have this contract of yours sent up to me. We’ll discuss the fine print tomorrow.”

“I will. Thank you, Inquisitor.” Alistair nodded at her as he stood to leave, then hesitated as he offered her a small smile, human again in a way she could hardly bear. “I understand that this is only political. But I do hope one day we can at least be friends.”

But they never could be; he’d never know her, and she could never allow him to, and distance would be the only way for either of them to continue. For Shepard would be gone, and it wouldn’t be his fault, but she’d resent him for it all the same.

“Yeah,” she said, with as much of a smile as she could manage. “I hope so, too.”

\---

Olivia slipped away from the ballroom at the first opportunity, leaving both the staff and the nobility in a frantic mix of excitement and fear over the evening’s events. That the Crows had shown hadn’t been surprising, but Shepard being injured had rattled her — and for one awful moment, as she’d watched an arrow sink into her chest, she’d been gripped with terror at having lost her friend. She’d wanted to rush to her side, but of course she couldn’t; instead she was forced to look on, and trust in the others who attended her, and endure the wait until she could be herself again.

When the opportunity came she didn’t return to their quarters straight away, instead seeking out Leliana and their prisoner, for she knew Shepard’s first question would be for any information they’d gained. She was disappointed to find the interrogation had so far been fruitless. The man had proved unwilling to divulge any crumb of information about the assassins, but Leliana seemed determined to press forward. Olivia left her to it before discreetly making her way to the Inquisitor’s chambers. 

Shepard remained awake and still in her bloodstained dress, her face contorted into a look of concentration as she stared down at a pile of documents spread out on the bed.

“You should be in bed.”

Shepard shrugged, not looking up from her papers. “I’m _on_ bed.” 

“You should at least close the window. You’ll catch your death.”

Shepard ignored her. “That Crow give you anything?”

“Nothing. Leliana says she will keep trying. Are you alright?”

“Of course.” Shepard looked up to smile at her, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Olivia followed her gaze as she turned back to the documents. “Please tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”

Shepard’s smile faded, serving only to confirm her fears.

“He asked, then.”

Her voice came out flatter than she’d meant it to, and by Shepard’s expression she could tell she had the right of it. Pain shot through her chest, as though the arrow had struck her instead. She almost wished it had.

She’d known, of course, that it would come to this, even if she’d hoped it wouldn’t — even if she’d hoped, though she could barely admit it to herself, that Alistair would have chosen her over the crown. Yet this was the best strategy, and what’s more she’d encouraged him to do it — and just because they would turn the offer down didn’t mean it wasn’t worth asking.

But none of that explained why Shepard looked so sad. Olivia felt a pang of realisation, far sharper and stronger than the first.

“You agreed.” She wasn’t sure which was worse; losing her best friend or the man she cared for. “Shepard…”

“It’s fine,” Shepard said, placing her hand on her arm. “I’m happy to do this for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to!” She shied away from her touch. “Why would you agree to this?! How could you possibly think this could be a good idea?”

“Because I know you, Olivia,” Shepard said. Olivia scarcely remembered when she’d last seen Shepard so serious — she _never_ used Olivia’s full name. “You’ve given everything to the Inquisition, but you know as well as I do that it’s not going to last forever. So I can take the fall here, and when all of this is over you can be properly free.”

Had it not been for the last week, Shepard’s reading of her would have been perfect — but that was before Alistair. Wonderful, smart, kind, funny Alistair. Had someone told her a week ago that she’d find herself _here_ — hopelessly falling for the King, and half-convinced he was falling for her in return — she would have called them mad. Now it seemed as though she was the one who had lost her mind.

Well. Her and Shepard.

“Besides, you don’t want to be married to some random guy,” Shepard continued, blissfully unaware of the direction Olivia’s thoughts had taken. “You didn’t even want to be stuck with Cullen, and Cullen is…”

Shepard looked impossibly sad for a moment, her gaze unfocused as she stared off to the side — but as quickly as it came it was gone, the vulnerability she’d shown masked once more. Olivia sighed. If only she’d admit it to herself; Olivia had known what was going on for years. It was ludicrous that Shepard hadn’t realised.

“I always thought Cullen was better suited to someone else,” she said softly, not wanting to scare her. “Wouldn’t you rather be with someone suited to you? Someone you love?”

“Yes. But I don’t really see that happening.” Shepard smiled wryly. “It doesn’t matter. I can continue this work — for you. And then you can have whatever you want.”

Olivia let out a bitter laugh. If Shepard had been any less earnest, she would have hated her — but as it was, that was impossible. No one could look at her and think she was doing anything other than what she thought was right for Olivia. “I don’t recall you asking me what I want.”  
Shepard opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it was was lost to the sound of a sharp knock on the bedroom door.

“Inquisitor.”

Shepard shot Olivia a brief, panicked look at the unmistakable sound of Cullen’s voice just outside. “I can’t do this right now,” Shepard murmured, running a hand through her hair. “He’s going to lose his shit.”

“Yes, and for good reason.”

Her words had more rebuke than intended, and Shepard’s face contorted into a scowl, all her previous sincerity replaced by hardness. “You know what, Liv,” she began, then cut herself off with a vicious shake of her head. “Forget it.”

“What—”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen’s voice sounded again, more urgent now. “Shepard!” he hissed. “Just open the door.”

Shepard moved halfway to the door before seeming to think better of it. “Oh, fuck this,” she muttered. “You know what? You’re the Inquisitor — you deal with it.”

And then she jumped out the window.

“ _Shepard_!” Olivia yelled as Shepard’s blue glowing form disappeared from view, having darted across the room before she could take a single movement towards stopping her. The door behind her burst open as she spoke, revealing Cullen with his sword already drawn, his mouth set in a grim line as he looked from Olivia to the open window. 

“Are you alright?” he asked urgently. “Where’s—”

“She jumped out the— the _bloody_ window!” Olivia threw her hands in the air. She wasn’t usually one to swear, but this time the situation seemed to call for it.

“She did _what_?” He rushed over to the window and looked down. “Why would she do that?!”

Olivia heaved a heavy sigh. Really — they were going to do this _now_? “Why do you think, Cullen?”

Her sarcasm seemed lost on him. “I don’t know.” He looked back at her, far too confused for someone who should have been intelligent enough to see what was going on.

“Maker save me — because of you, you dolt!”

Cullen frowned. “Why would she do that? I was just coming over to—”

“She’s agreed to marry another man even though she’s madly in love with you! Would _you_ want to be talking to you right now, if you were her?”

“She— _what_?” Cullen paled. “What did you say?”

Olivia saw absolutely no reason why she had to be the one to spell it out, but he’d annoyed her too much to let it slide this time. “This is painfully obvious to everyone except the two of you. You’re both blind to not see it, and, honestly, I should have pointed it out years ago. You love her. She loves you. And the pair of you are driving me insane.”

Cullen stared at her dumbly for an intolerably long moment before his expression shifted. “I… I love her,” he said, as if only just realising it himself. “Oh, _no_.”

He crossed over to the bed, sitting down on it and placing his head in his hands, and Olivia felt a brief pang of pity for him. “Of course you do,” she said, softer now. “If it’s any consolation, it’s clear she als—”

“Wait,” he cut her off, raising his head to look at her again. “What did you mean about marrying another man? Marrying who?” He paused for a moment, realisation dawning on him a second time. “You don’t mean… oh, _no_.”

“Oh, Cullen,” Olivia said, her heart sinking as she realised her mistake far too late. “I assumed you’d… Shepard didn’t tell you what she was planning?”

“No.” 

“Cullen, I—”

“No,” he repeated, more firmly. “No. It’s not true. She wouldn’t do that.”

He said it with conviction, yet she couldn’t mistake the hint of desperation in his eyes, and neither could she bear to confirm the truth to him. But the reflexive flicker of her gaze towards the pile of papers on the bed gave her away. Cullen reached over and picked a sheaf up, his eyes skimming over the text far faster than he would have been able to read it. The paper fell from his hand and floated to the floor before he spoke or moved again.

“No,” he said again — more quietly, and with less certainty than before.

“I’m sorry, Cullen, I shouldn’t have—”

He abruptly stood to his feet, interrupting her with a hard glare. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

Without another word, he marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him — and, though Olivia’s heart was still raw from the promise Alistair had offered another, it also ached for Cullen.


	11. Chapter 11

Alistair now had a fiancée. 

Maker, that was a weird thought.

He supposed that ought to be cause for celebration — it would be, judging by the fact even more Satinalia trees had appeared overnight. 

“Are there any forests left in this entire bloody country, or have they all been hauled inside the castle?” Alistair grumbled as he sat down for breakfast. “Who needs so many trees?”

“The Lord Steward ordered more decorations put up, Your Majesty,” Andrew explained. “As I understand it, congratulations are in order.”

“So they say.”

Over the years, Andrew had gotten to know Alistair well enough to know without saying that he didn’t wish to discuss the subject further. Instead, he busied himself with setting the table. 

“Where is that girl?” he wondered idly. “Your porridge should be here by now. My apologies, Your Majesty — shall I go see what’s keeping them?”

Just then a noise sounded behind the door.

“No, please, can’t someone else?” an all-too-familiar voice said, in an entirely unfamiliar, almost panicked cadence. “I… I spilled wine down his shirt, I shouldn’t have to—”

“You promised that if I dealt with his lunch yesterday, you would take care of his breakfast today,” another voice answered. “You promised I could serve the yummy Commander.”

“But—”

“No buts!” 

Andrew, clearly exasperated with the indiscretions of his hirelings, cleared his throat before opening the door. 

“Please serve the King his breakfast,” he said to whoever was on the other side — though Alistair knew exactly who it was. “Without comment, if you will.”

He pulled the door open further to reveal a stricken Vee, who hesitated for a moment before rolling the breakfast cart into the room. She looked as though she’d barely slept, and he felt an instant pang of regret. He was an absolute clod; he shouldn’t have gone off on her as he had the other night. Not only had he clearly made her uncomfortable, but he’d revealed himself as the inept king he was to the one person he’d most hoped would never see him as such.

“Thank you, Andrew, I think that will be all for the moment.”

Andrew bowed and left the room as Vee placed his porridge on the table. 

“Will that be all, Your Majesty?” Vee asked, not looking at him. Before he had a chance to reply, she was at the door, reaching for the handle.

“Vee — wait.” Alistair hadn’t consciously decided to stop her before the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “Please.”

He didn’t know what he was pleading for — for her to stay, for her to go, for her to speak the words she was so clearly holding back. She turned to look at him anyway, a faint flicker of curiosity on her face, and he found himself suddenly incapable of doing any of that.

“I… I did as you asked,” he said, hoping beyond hope that was what she wanted to hear.

“And what would that be, Your Majesty?”

“Alistair. Please.” 

“Your Majesty,” she repeated, more firmly this time.

“I just… I took your advice and did the right thing. For all of us. I just wanted you to know that.”

Any light her expression had held was extinguished, replaced by a cold, faraway stare. “I’m pleased to hear it, Your Majesty.”

She gave him a quick curtsy and ducked out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Alistair alone once more.

\---

Cullen failed to show up to the war room.

Cullen _never_ failed to show up to the war room.

“Maybe we should wait a bit longer,” Shepard suggested. She’d regretted her abrupt exit from the Inquisitor’s quarters the moment she’d landed on hard ground, not least because she’d left without putting on a coat. She’d quickly returned inside, resigned to speaking with Cullen about _everything_ , but she didn’t find him either in her quarters or in his, and after searching the castle to avail for an hour she gave up in defeat. 

“If Cullen was going to attend, he would be here already,” Liv said, harsher than Shepard had expected. “Leliana, have you discovered anything further about this assassination contract?”

“No,” Leliana said. “But I have my best spies on the case. We should hear from them soon. I trust you will keep yourself safe until then, Shepard?”

Shepard shrugged, barely caring about another attempt on her life. She’d had far worse before.

“Good,” Josephine said. “Then we should move onto our next matter of business. I understand the King sought you out in your quarters last night.”

Shepard shrugged again.

“And?”

“And he gave me a marriage contract, which I agreed to sign. The date’s set for the first of… whatever the first month of the new year is. Will that be enough time for you to buy us presents?”

“ _Shepard_ ,” Liv scolded, her eyes flashing with the same contempt she’d shown the previous night. All of this she’d done for her — and now she couldn’t even say thank you?

“I’m sorry, did _you_ want the sham wedding to Ferelden’s most eligible idiot?”

Liv’s mouth opened and closed in silent protest. Before Shepard could argue with her further Josephine stepped in.

“It may be best to avoid such terminology once you’re married.”

Shepard arched an eyebrow at her. “So you’re on board?”

“It is the best choice for the Inquisition,” Josephine agreed. “Even if you are not…”

She trailed off, looking towards Leliana. “But that can all be sorted,” Leliana continued. “I think what we should focus on now is what happens next to Olivia.”

“It clearly doesn’t matter what happens to me,” Liv snapped. Even Leliana appeared taken aback by her tone. “I may as well stay at the castle as a serving girl, for all the consideration you have given me.”

“Liv—”

“ _No_ ,” Liv cut her off. “You have made your choice, Shepard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, apparently I have dishes to clean.”

She swept out of the room before any of them could protest, the door slamming closed with a resounding _bang_ behind her. 

“Are you sure about this, Shepard?”

There was no need to hide how she felt from Leliana — she could surely see it already — yet Shepard still offered her a smile and pushed down the despair that echoed inside her.

“Of course,” Shepard said.

“Good,” Leliana nodded. “Because he’s announcing it tonight.”

And sure enough, three hours later, there Shepard was: stuffed into the world’s most uncomfortable dress, sitting next to the world’s most boorish man, at the head of a long table full of useless dignitaries. The contract signed, all that was left was for Alistair to announce their engagement — and she wished he would hurry up about it, because all she wanted to do was go back to her room and mope. 

Liv hadn’t spoken to her all day, clearly incensed about Shepard making such a decision without consulting her. Cullen, on the other hand, hadn’t even shown his stupid face all day. It was obvious he knew about the engagement — despite not being formally announced, the castle was buzzing with the gossip — and yet he hadn’t even come to speak to her about it.

Not that she wanted him to fight for her. She just wanted him to say _something_.

Eamon tapped his glass with a knife, silencing the chatter at the table. “If I could have a moment of your time,” his voice carried across the room. “His Majesty has a few words to say.”

“Yes. Right.” Alistair pushed up from his chair, shooting Shepard a quick, unreadable expression before looking out across the table.

“As you all know, the Inquisition has attended our Satinalia celebrations this year in order to reach an accord with Ferelden — and our negotiations have proven far more successful than I could ever have hoped for.”

There was a murmur of approval down the table.

“I am pleased to announce that in the new year the Inquisitor will do me the honour of becoming my wife. Olivia.”

Shepard’s gaze flashed quickly to Liv, currently serving wine at the other end of the table, before she remembered with a jolt that Olivia meant _her_. Alistair looked at her expectantly, and so Shepard — as there was a distinct lack of windows for her to currently jump out of — stood up and offered the party what she hoped seemed a genuine smile.

She sat down again as Alistair did so. He looked towards her, staring at her for a long while as if expecting her to say something, but when his hope proved fruitless — why should _she_ be the one to start chit-chatting, this was _his_ party — he turned to his other side and sunk into conversation with his uncle.

That moment set the tone for the rest of the incredibly uncomfortable evening. Alistair looked at her every now and then, raising an eyebrow or nodding his head in the general direction of whoever he was talking to at the time, trying to engage her in the conversations she knew nothing of with people she didn’t care about. She figured it was best to just get used to this life now — looking pretty at Alistair’s side and being otherwise entirely inconsequential. 

As the evening drew to a close and the guests began to return to their quarters, Alistair turned to her once more, a look in his eyes which Shepard couldn’t quite make out.

“Have I done something wrong?”

Whatever she’d anticipated him saying, she hadn’t expected him to be that direct. She blinked once before replying. “I’m sorry?”

“I just… you know, I thought we had an accord. I’m sorry if I was mistaken. You seem… well, you seem to be a bit out of sorts.”

He sounded so earnest that Shepard almost admitted the entire farce to him then and there — but then her gaze flickered to Liv on the other side of the room, and she reminded herself firmly why she needed to do this.

“Sorry,” she said, offering him a small smile. “I’m just… not very good at small-talk. I have a tendency to try and break the ice with joking threats or threatening jokes. Either way, Leliana gets mad about it.”

Much to her surprise, Alistair smiled back at her. “Yes, I do recall your mention of throwing knives. But I wouldn’t want you to feel as though you can’t be yourself.”

If it hadn’t been for the softness in his face, she might have laughed bitterly at that, for of course that was the one thing she could never be. But his sincerity held her back even as his words made her heart ache.

“Thank you,” she told him.

He smiled at her again, strangely vulnerable, before turning back to his uncle and resuming their conversation. She held back a sigh, instead taking a long sip of her wine as she summoned the willpower to join in — and when she finally did so, enquiring on something banal in the Hinterlands, the expression he gave her seemed truly grateful.

He really was rather sweet for a king, she considered. It was utterly intolerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a little bit of a break over the festive period but we're back now and the last few chapters should be following shortly! Thanks to everyone who's been following this story with us and happy New Year! :D


	12. Chapter 12

Cullen didn’t reappear at the Inquisition’s evening meeting around their makeshift war table, and when their business concluded Shepard returned to her quarters with a heavy heart. It should have made things easier, as now she didn’t have to see his expression when Josephine discussed the wedding plans, but instead she found herself even more preoccupied by his absence. She could barely remember a time when he wasn’t _there_ , yet soon she’d lose him for good — and it seemed as if that had already started.

She supposed she could only hope she’d miss him less in time.

She returned to the Inquisitor’s quarters exhausted from the day’s events, but still found herself unable to sleep. It didn’t take long for her to give up on it entirely. She pulled the covers from her bed and instead sat at the bay window, cocooning herself in her blankets as she looked out at the stars. They had always calmed her before, the endless sky strangely soothing in its magnitude, but for once she couldn’t take solace in their glow. They’d been her home once too, and now they were eternally out of her reach — just as the life she currently led soon would be.

She drifted off as the first fall of snow obscured her view of the stars, and when she awoke her face was pressed against the glass. It must have still been early, for the sun had only just begun to break through the twilight, and she was about to close her eyes again when she realised she’d been woken by an insistent knocking on the door. She jumped up from her seat, not bothering to put on anything more than her nightshirt before opening it.

She expected to find Leliana or Josephine, ready to wrangle her into another day of deference for the crown, but instead she froze on finding Cullen in her doorway. He’d clearly slept as poorly as her; his eyes were bloodshot and his hair dishevelled and he wasn’t even dressed properly, his plates abandoned in favour of only wearing his lighter layers. Still, as he stood before her looking distinctly worse for wear, he was the best sight she could possibly imagine.

“ _Cullen_ ,” she said, doing everything she could not to give into the urge to hug him. “I thought you left.”

“What?” His brow knitted together as though what she’d said was inconceivable to him. “Of course I didn’t leave.” He swept into the room without waiting to be invited in, placing his wad of documents down on the dressing table. “I’ve been working on our plan of attack.”

“For what?”

“For getting you out of this blighted marriage. Here,” he said, pushing a fistful of papers into her hand. “I’ve come up with several proposals. I want to run them by you first.”

She quickly scanned the documents, which seemed to be a numbered list running for half a dozen pages, littered with crossings-out and Cullen’s scrawl becoming almost illegible by the end. “How many is several?”

“Twenty-seven. First: amnesia.”

“Cullen—”

“We orchestrate some sort of accident that results in a head injury.” He ignored her protestations, proceeding instead with a particularly pointed tone as he suggested: “perhaps you could jump out of a window again. We say you need to return to Skyhold to convalesce, then we stall the wedding and disband the Inquisition at the Exalted Council before it can go through.”

She could see by the steely glint in his eyes that there would be no getting out of his impromptu strategy meeting, and with a groan she resigned herself to participating. “Eamon and Teagan aren’t just going to sit by and wait for me to recover.”

“What will they do? Force a woman with no memory into a marriage?” He paused, seeming to consider the probability of that happening. “Fine. Then we fake your death.”

“Oh, come _on_.”

“It would be easy enough to do,” he persisted. “The King already thinks the Crows are after you.”

“And then there’s just no Inquisitor?”

“Josephine, Leliana and I would have to attend the Exalted Council without Olivia and dismantle the Inquisition. You would have to hide, and she would have to assume a new identity—”

“And ‘Olivia Trevelyan’ would die.”

It was the same thing Shepard had offered Olivia — to sacrifice everything she’d fought for so the other could be free — but the legacy of Shepard had run her course, and Olivia’s had only just started. She refused to take that away from her. “No. You can’t just wipe that name off the face of the planet.”

He seemed to read in her face how deeply she meant that, for he didn’t push it further, instead dropping her gaze to frown at his papers. He was quiet for a moment as he studied them, and when he spoke again his voice shook with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“We reveal that you have a pre-existing marriage contract with someone else.”

“Well, firstly I don’t, and secondly even if you do fake one you’re going to have to find me another man.” He looked up at her again, a hint of desperation in his tired eyes, and the full extent of what he suggested felt like a sledgehammer to her chest. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“No, Shepard — you have lost _your_ mind,” he snapped at her, then winced before speaking more levelly. “We would simply need to have a separate contract backdated, and your one with the King would be void.”

“Yeah, and then _we_ would need to get…” She trailed off, unable to voice the words ‘get married’, because just thinking them made her heart break out in a frantic patter of beats.

“I think I could live with that.”

He spoke in his best attempt at lightness, reflecting her usual manner straight back — but he knew, as well as she did, the depths which such glibness tried to hide. He dropped his gaze again, fiddling nervously with the papers on the desk, and it occurred to her that this was the second marriage proposal she’d had in the last 48 hours. It also occurred to her that, in another lifetime, she wouldn’t hesitate before saying yes.

But she’d never lived for herself before now. It was pointless to hope that could change.

“Cullen,” she said instead, taking a step towards him and placing a hand over his on the desk. “It’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine,” he told her, his expression hardening as his eyes met hers once more. They were standing far too close now, but she just couldn’t bear to step away. “You spoke of Olivia’s name. But can you not see how I could not bear for you to…” he began, then trailed off with a groan. “What happens to _Shepard_ if you marry him? Does all that — all of _you_ — just disappear?”

She let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Shepard doesn’t mean anything to anyone anymore.”

“It does to me.” He said it with such conviction that she almost felt like that old hero again — for somehow he saw it all in her, even when she barely did herself. “Marry me.”

It would have been very easy to lean forward and kiss him: to broach that small gulf between them and brush her lips against his. To lose herself in his golden, burning eyes and surrender to his strong arms around her. It would be very easy to say yes to him, because then he would always be there, and everything he still fought to overcome would be something they could fight together.

It would be very easy to love Cullen. She knew, because she already did.

“Cullen.” She said his name almost wistfully; she didn’t know how many more times they’d have just the two of them, like this. “I don’t want anyone to have to sacrifice something to get me out of this. I’ve always been a lost cause, and you—” she didn’t quite catch the break in her voice, but with a shake of her head she persevered. “You deserve to be happy. So save it until you find someone you love.”

“I love _you_ ,” he told her, his eyes blazing and his voice thick with emotion, and as the words tumbled from him Shepard was sure she’d forgotten how to breathe. “I had thought that would be abundantly clear by now.”

She hesitated for only a moment before pushing forward, her hands bunching in the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him down to her height — pressing her lips against his in one final, desperate act of selfishness which she knew even then would be her ruin. He reacted quicker than she’d expected, only a beat of stunned surprise before he was kissing her back, fervent and fierce as he raked through her hair with one hand whilst the other grasped tightly at her hip.

He pressed against her, his warmth radiating through her skin and causing her heart to quicken. They’d never been this close before — but still she needed him closer. He seemed to be thinking the same; she coiled her arms around his neck and he shifted, the touch of his palms on her bare thighs electric as he lifted her onto the table, never once breaking their kiss. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him tighter to her in a desperate bid to be as near to him as possible, for as long as possible.

“Mollie,” he murmured, finally pulling back to press his forehead to hers, and the sound of her name on his lips elicited a fluttering in her heart she’d thought she was far too old and war-battered for. “Is this…?” 

There was a wealth of meaning in that simple, broken question, but the answer to it all was the same. “I don’t know,” she admitted, because he deserved far more than she could give him, but the least she could do was be honest. “Just don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. He kissed her again, softer now, but somehow with even more feeling: as though his touch alone could convince her that he had the answer to all which stood in their way. As his palm grazed her thigh and moved under her nightshirt, the persistent buzzing of her too-loud thoughts seemed to fade. There was only them, and the heat between them, and the hammer of her heart in her chest — and for one, shining moment, she believed that was all they needed.

A loud rap on the door made them jump apart, and Shepard couldn’t help but groan in frustration. “Should we…?” Cullen began, looking disappointedly over his shoulder.

“No. If we ignore it they’ll go away.”

With a hoarse chuckle he pressed a kiss along the line of her jaw, and then another, his stubble scraping her skin as he made his way down her neck. “Cullen,” she moaned, slightly too loudly, immediately realising her mistake as the door burst open and Leliana swept inside.

It was painfully obvious what she’d just interrupted, from both Shepard’s wanton position on the desk and the shade of beetroot Cullen was currently turning, but Leliana paid them no attention.

“You both need to see this.”

Shepard hopped down from the dressing table, marginally humiliated at being discovered in such a state, but Cullen was quicker than her, approaching Leliana and grabbing the letter she was holding.

“What is it?” Shepard asked, but Cullen said nothing. His eyes widened as he scanned the paper, the colour rapidly draining from his face. “Cullen, what is it?”

“Leliana found out who hired the Crows.”

Shepard grabbed the letter from him, then scrunched it into a ball in her fist on reading the name of the party responsible.

“Oh, you are _fucking_ kidding me.”

\---

This stupid marriage was going to be the death of Alistair. Eamon had, for some inexplicable reason, decided to order even _more_ trees felled for their wedding festivities in the new year, and due to the sudden increase in demand the price was exorbitant.

Alistair sighed. Eamon would bankrupt the treasury at this rate — and for what? For the world’s biggest sham of a wedding. He wasn’t sure the Inquisitor even _liked_ him, and they certainly didn’t love each other.

He had to put his foot down now or else they’d raze the Brecilian forest for this nonsense. He gathered up the bills and contract, determinedly sweeping out of his office. He was going to take a stand; he was going to tell Eamon that this wasn’t— 

His internal diatribe came to a stop as he rounded the corner and walked straight into someone. She let out a squeak, and he jumped to the side, trying to avoid knocking her to the floor — but to no avail. 

Papers flew everywhere as he stumbled, determined to at least not step on her prone form. 

“Maker’s breath!” he exclaimed, bending down to offer her a hand. “I’m so sorry, I’m—”

Vee. Of course, it had to be Vee.

She stared at him, wide-eyed with shock, for an uncomfortably long time without taking his proffered hand. 

“I do wish you’d take it. My arm is getting tired.”

That seemed to startle her into action. She scrambled to her knees, still ignoring his outstretched hand in favour of gathering up the papers on the floor.

“I am so sorry, Your Majesty — your papers… Here, let me…”

“No, I can—”

They reached toward the papers in unison, and instead, their hands touched. Vee shrank away with a gasp. He was about to apologise for once again acting like a clod — but then he met her gaze, her azure eyes wide and sparkling, and the words died on his lips. 

“Vee…” he began, his foolish heart clenching on just her name. 

She looked away from him and stood, and he hurried to follow suit, quickly gathering up his papers before straightening to his full height to catch her eye again.

“I wish you’d tell me what I’ve done wrong,” he continued. “It’s stupid, really, but I thought… well, I thought you’d be proud of me for stepping up and doing my duty.”

Something wavered behind her stoic expression, and she took a step towards him before seeming to remember herself. “I _am_ proud of you, Alistair,” she said quietly, tone softening further on his name. “It’s just…”

“What? Please, Vee; you can trust me.”

And that was when he saw it: her eyes briefly flickered downwards and then back up to meet his gaze again, almost as if… almost as if she had been looking at his lips. His heart clenched again, this time with an altogether different emotion.

What if he’d been wrong what felt like forever ago, back in the kitchens? What if she hadn’t pulled away from him because she’d been disinterested, but quite the opposite? For the first time in days, he felt a shred of hope.

He reached forward without thinking, only just stopping himself in time before he swept a lock of hair from her cheek. He didn’t know he was right; it wouldn’t have been the first time he overestimated his appeal in the eyes of a woman. His hand clenched into a fist and dropped to his side, but before he could turn away with some excuse he heard the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Alistair,” Vee sighed.

Void take this indecisiveness. He had to know what she thought — and, just then, there was only one thing he could think to do that would help him find out. He reached out again, this time to take her in his arms and settle this once and for all, when a sudden screech interrupted him.

“You!” the Inquisitor shouted, barrelling down the corridor towards them. “You’ve got some fucking explaining to do!”

\---

Olivia jumped backwards, her heart hammering in her chest as a livid Shepard approached them. She stopped in front of them with her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing as she glared daggers at Alistair.

“Am I in the doghouse already?”

Shepard’s jaw clenched in irritation, and for a wild moment Olivia thought she was going to attack him. Instead she took a steadying breath, speaking next with a forced calm.

“Our spymaster has made some headway in our Satinalia murder mystery subplot. Would you care to tell me, my darling future husband, why you tried to have me assassinated?!”

He blinked in confusion. “I mean… some would say being stuck with me for the rest of your days is a fate worse than death, but comparing it to an assassination still seems rather extreme. Do you know something I don’t?”

She produced a letter from her jacket pocket and shoved it into his chest, the force making him stumble slightly. “This is a letter — with _your_ royal seal — offering a significant sum of gold to the Crows in exchange for their ‘assistance’. So now you have ten seconds to explain this, before you end up needing your crown surgically removed from your colon.”

Alistair stared at the paper for a moment before his brow furrowed. “I didn’t sign this.” 

Shepard narrowed her eyes at him. “Eight.”

“Then who did?” Olivia asked, forgetting to keep up her pretense.

Thankfully, Alistair seemed too preoccupied to notice her weighing in on affairs she normally would never have dared to. “I don’t…”

“Six. Think faster, _Your Majesty_.”

“Will you _please_ calm down for one moment?” Olivia rounded on her. “You cannot go around accusing others of attempted murder with no proof!”

“No proof?!” Shepard screeched, wrenching the letter out of Alistair’s hands and thrusting it at Olivia. “There’s the proof!”

She didn’t take the letter, instead fixing Shepard with a hard stare. “He says he didn’t sign it.”

Shepard scoffed. “Oh and you’d know, would you?”

“Yes, I do know!”

“Really? _Really_? How exactly?!”

“Because I’m the Inquisitor!” Olivia snapped, beyond vexed with Shepard’s dismissiveness. “Or have you been so caught up with pretending to be me that you’ve entirely forgotten that fact?!”

“You’re _who_?” came a voice from behind her, and Olivia froze. Her rage drained from her as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the inconvenient and unfortunately neglected fact that Alistair was still standing there, listening to every word she’d just said. 

Oh no.

She turned around to see him staring at her in astonishment, his papers scattered on the floor once more.

“You’re… you’re the Inquisitor?”

Oh, _no._


	13. Chapter 13

“Well, this is no longer any of my business.” Shepard gave Olivia a pat on the shoulder. “Good talk, Liv.”

“Don’t you dare—”

But she was already gone, halfway down the corridor before Olivia had a chance to pull her back into the mess _she’d_ helped create. 

“Forgive me for sounding ignorant, but I was under the impression that there was only one Inquisitor.” Alistair’s tone was clipped.

“I…”

“But of course, it’s not the first time I’ve been wrong. I mean, I did think you were a servant in my castle, so I’ve been wrong about that if nothing else — unless yelling at visiting dignitaries is something they’ve recently started teaching my staff to do.”

“I…” Olivia took a deep breath to compose herself, attempting to force down the panic rising in her chest. “I can explain.” 

“Oh, can you now?” He raised an eyebrow, expression still entirely unreadable. “Well, that makes me feel so much better. Please, by all means, explain; I don’t even know who you are, except that you’ve apparently been lying to me through your teeth the entire time we’ve known each other, so naturally I have no reason not to trust you.”

“Please… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Things just go so out of hand!”

“What ‘things’?”

“I just— all I wanted to do was find out what your reasons were for inviting us here! And I was... and _you_ were… well, you were supposed to be away on business!”

“I’m sorry for not knocking on my own door. I’ll be sure to do that next time someone’s snooping in there.”

“And what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t very well tell you who I was; you’d have had us thrown out of the castle. So I had to improvise. I couldn’t have known that I— that _you_ would be so…” She trailed off, unable to articulate just how _Alistair_ he was. “Anyway. That is beside the point. I didn’t mean to lie to you — it really did just get entirely out of hand in a way I’d never expected. I certainly never expected it would come to… this. I’m… I’m so sorry, Alistair. Please forgive me.”

He stared at her blankly for a long moment, not so much as a flicker of what he was thinking showing on his face. Finally, to her intense surprise, he burst out laughing.

“You… you…” he choked out. “Oh, Maker help me,” he spluttered. “That is the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard in my life.” And, with that, he broke down laughing again.

This time, it took him longer to wrangle himself back under some semblance of control, giving Olivia plenty of time to stare at him in bewilderment. Whatever she’d imagined his reaction would be all those times she’d considered telling him the truth, this was not it. 

“How… how can you find this funny?” she finally asked.

“How can you not?” He chuckled again, reaching up to wipe a hand across his face. “You realise I was lying about being away in order to avoid meeting with you people entirely, right?” 

“Why were you trying to avoid us? It was your bloody meeting.”

“‘Bloody’? Inquisitor, please, at least say ‘fuck’. We’re all adults here. In theory.” He snorted. “Though I can’t say either of our behaviours really supports that fact right now.” He shook his head. “So, let me get this straight: you’re the Inquisitor, Olivia Trevelyan.” 

She nodded.

“And that—” he gestured in the direction Shepard had gone “—that woman is…”

“Shepard. She’s… a friend.”

“To you, maybe. I don’t think she likes me very much — even if she did agree to marry me.” He paused, frowning as he considered something further. “Why _did_ she agree to marry me?”

“I think she saw it as a noble sacrifice to save me from an arranged marriage. Not that I was consulted on the matter.”

“Right. And, um, this is going to sound incredibly awkward, but I do feel I need to ask: who in Maker’s name am I engaged to, then? Wait… am I engaged at all?”

Olivia’s eyes widened, the full consequence of Shepard’s agreement suddenly dawning on her. “I…” she looked down, unable to meet his eyes as she spoke the words. “Your marriage contract is made with Olivia Trevelyan, and seeing as Shepard was acting in my stead with my permission, she would technically have been acting as my proxy. So… I suppose that makes you engaged to, um, me.”

“You-you? Not Shepard-you?”

“Me-me, yes.”

“Well. That’s a far better state of affairs than the one I woke up to.” 

“It’s _what_?”

Her gaze snapped back towards him to find him smiling widely — and entirely irrationally, given the circumstances.

“Yes, I mean, ideally you’d always propose to the woman you want to propose to and end up engaged to her, but if proposing to the woman you don’t want to be engaged to gets you engaged to the woman you actually want to marry, I guess I’ll take it,” he said brightly, absurdly at ease with the flying pace at which his prospective bride was changing. “It’s better than nothing, right?” When she failed to immediately reply, the excitement in his expression dimmed. “I mean… unless you don’t want that. I kind of thought… well, I mean, I thought we had a moment there, earlier, but if I was wrong—” 

She couldn’t bear for him to continue in uncertainty for a moment longer; placing all propriety aside, she lurched forward, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close as she pressed her lips against his. He didn’t even hesitate before kissing her back, his strong arms encircling her as he met her with all of the warmth she’d longed for.

She had no idea how she’d ended up here, or what it meant for either of their futures — but for once she wasn’t going to question it.

He broke away from her to offer her a roguish grin. “Wow. And to think I kicked up such a fuss about decking all the halls in mistletoe.” He nodded his head towards the ceiling. 

Olivia looked up to see there was indeed a sprig of mistletoe suspended in the air above their heads. 

“I guess Eamon got something right with this whole Satinalia to-do. Even if the trees have bankrupted this country.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh— nothing,” Alistair told her. She looked down at the papers scattered on the floor, reaching down to sweep them up again. “I suppose I shouldn’t bemoan the cost if any of it brought you and I—”

“Satinalia trees don’t cost this much.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is the price that has been agreed upon?” she asked, pointing to the calculations on his documents. Alistair nodded. “We paid barely a fraction of that at Skyhold — and our trees needed to be transported through the Frostbacks.” 

“There must be some mistake,” Alistair said, frowning as he accepted the papers back from her.

“There’s no mistake on my part,” she said, the War Room debate on the topic forming three hours of her life she would never get back. “I fear you’re either being conned or that your gold is being used for something else entirely.”

She said it flippantly, yet the words stirred something in both of them, and Alistair’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.

“Like the Crows,” they said in unison.

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” Alistair muttered. 

“Who has access to both the treasury and your royal seal?”

“Eamon. But he couldn’t— could he?”

It was heart-wrenching to see how troubled he was by that thought, and so she reached out for him, placing a hand on his arm. “Perhaps there’s another explanation,” she offered. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

“Indeed,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “Would you join me?” he asked, sounding oddly sheepish. “I would appreciate the moral support. Or, failing that, mage-related fire support. You _were_ a mage, right? You, Inquisitor, not you, Vee?”

She smiled at him, and as she did the doubt in his expression faded, replaced instead by that broad, hopelessly captivating grin of his. “You are correct,” she told him. “Lead the way.”

\---

Given Liv’s complete inability to maintain a ruse, Shepard figured they had approximately forty-five minutes to make a hasty exit from the castle before all their heads ended up on spikes. Having long perfected the art of channeling panic into productivity, she didn’t waste a second in orchestrating their escape; after hastily tacking up their horses and threatening the stablehand under penalty of death to keep them in the correct position, she raced back to her and Cullen’s quarters to enact the second half of her plan.

Cullen was there, as she’d expected him to be, his pacing of the room brought rapidly to a stop as she slammed the door behind her.

“Shepard,” he said, his eyes soft in a way they’d never been before as he looked at her. “What—”

“No time,” she cut him off. “Liv outed herself as the Inquisitor. We need to get out of here.”

“She— _what_?!”

“She literally said ‘I am the Inquisitor’ in front of the King,” she said, yanking her bag out from underneath the four-poster bed and haphazardly shoving her clothes into it. “Just for the record — every single one of you is fucking _useless_ at covert ops.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen said, raking a hand through his hair. “Where is the Inquisitor now?”

“Still with the King,” she told him. “Hopefully she’ll knock him out to give us some extra time. I’ve got our horses ready outside, and I’ve sent word to Leliana and Josie. We’re going out the window.”

“I— what is it with you and the window?!”

“The window has been my only means of escape this week!” she snapped, pulling her formal dress off its hanger and shoving it too in her bag in a way which was bound to ruin the fabric. “Do you have a better plan?”

“Other than going back in time and listening to me?”

“I don’t have time for you to attempt wit, Cullen!” She yanked the drawer out of the bedside table and tipped the contents into her bag; she wasn’t entirely sure if she owned all — or any — of it, but theft was fairly insignificant on today’s list of crimes. 

“Mollie,” Cullen said, with an odd quiver to his voice she wasn’t used to hearing, and she paused in her packing to look at him. “About—” he began, then cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Can we—”

“Cullen, I love you with every fibre of my being, but now is absolutely not the time.” He broke into a broad grin, and her heart did a ridiculous little flip which was entirely unsuited to direness of the current situation. “Stop that,” she warned him, because when he looked at her like _that_ she never wanted to look away, and they really did need to be making their escape right now. “Less smiling, more packing.”

“I can only agree to half of that.” 

If he kept distracting her with his soft gaze he was going to quite literally be the death of her, and with a great amount of effort she dragged her attention back to packing, grabbing the lamp from the bedside table and attempting to wedge it into her already full pack. 

“That isn’t ours,” he pointed out.

“It is now!”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, but the sound of someone clearing their throat cut him off. Shepard swivelled, finding Alistair — and, to her surprise, Liv — watching them from the doorway. 

“Stealing from me now, are you?” Alistair said in a lazily amused voice. “Not content to just lie to me and entrap me in a marriage under false pretenses?”

“Yes. And I’m eloping with another man. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“That’s a pity,” he said, not looking disappointed in the slightest. “You’ll miss my wedding.”

“That is kind of the point of a runaway bride.”

“I don’t think my bride is planning to run off. Are you, Olivia?”

He looked towards Liv, who beamed at him as she placed a hand on his forearm. “Not presently, Alistair.”

“ _What_?!”

Shepard and Cullen yelped that question in unison, and a quick glance in his direction showed him to be just as bewildered as she was.

“Alistair and I are both prepared to uphold the marriage contract, even though it was not I who made it — technically,” Liv told them.

“More than prepared,” Alistair continued. “Fairly overjoyed, actually.”

Liv let out a highly un-Inquisitorial titter of amusement as Shepard stared at them wide-eyed. “But— but—” she began, struggling to form a coherent sentence. “He tried to have you — me — _us_ assassinated!”

“It wasn’t Alistair,” Liv said. “It was Lord Steward Eamon. And we’ve dealt with that issue.”

“He’s in the dungeons until he can be tried properly,” Alistair clarified. “It may not help, but he does assure me it was a backup plan he hadn’t committed to using.”

“I see,” Cullen said, folding his arms across his chest. “That must be why Shepard took a backup arrow to the chest.”

Alistair’s expression hardened. “I don’t excuse his plan. But as I understand it, their hand was forced during one of your clandestine tours of my castle.”

“That tour was your future wife’s idea.”

“He knows that, Shepard,” Liv said. “I have explained everything.”

Liv’s hold on Alistair’s arm tightened, and as it did he placed his hand over hers — and Shepard, who’d surely seen more mystifying sights when she’d travelled through the stars, couldn’t recall a single moment which had left her as dumbstruck as this.

“I…” Shepard began, then tried again when that sentence failed her. “ _Him_?” was the only thing she could think of to say, which was unnecessarily insulting to a monarch but no worse than she’d done all week.

“ _Cullen_?” Liv returned with the same tone, and admittedly she had her there.

“I am right here, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, his tone indignant.

“And I hope you and the Inquisition will stay until this evening’s ball, at least,” Alistair said, geniality returning to his features. “I have a few surprises up my sleeve.”

He’d been addressing Liv more than them, but Shepard couldn’t help but chip in. “I hope they’re better than the ones we’ve had until now. Fewer assassins would be nice.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” he assured them with an easy smile. “Speaking of which — I should go prepare. I’ll see you later.” He pressed a kiss to Liv’s cheek before turning from them and leaving, and Olivia’s gaze followed him.

“We can still get you out of this,” Shepard told her, though she knew whatever she said would be futile. “Cullen has twenty-seven options for you to choose from.” She paused, reconsidering that statement. “Twenty-six. One’s not on offer.”

“I don’t want to get out of it.” She reluctantly dragged her gaze back to them, though her expression remained altogether far too lovestruck. “I want to marry him.”

She was being utterly absurd, not in the least because she’d known the man for a week — and yet Shepard had never seen her look so dreamy-eyed. Against her better judgement, Shepard smiled with her.

“Just to clarify, Inquisitor,” Cullen broke the silence. “You shall be willingly marrying the King, and there shall be no repercussions for all of… _this_?” He indicated vaguely to the room.

“None,” she assured him. 

The tension in his shoulders finally relaxed at that, and a small smile returned to his face. “Well, then. I suppose congratulations are in order.” He gave her a stilted, awkward sort of nod before turning towards Shepard. “Shepard, I…” he began, and for a wild moment she thought he was going to propose to her again. For an even wilder moment, she thought she might like him to. 

“This entire ordeal has taken years off my life,” he told her instead.


End file.
